


1985: Dark Infinity

by Space_and_Thyme



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: Summer, 1985. A mysterious stranger arrives in Hawkins, putting the kids on edge. With only a name to go on, the kids are faced with a history they could never imagine. Just who is George Percival?Rating is for language.





	1. Welcome To Hawkins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naturalblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturalblues/gifts).



Hawkins Indiana had never been the same following the events of the last two years; Will Byers’ disappearance into the realm that they had effectively started calling The Upside Down, his subsequent return, and the events that ripped the town senseless the year following – all of it had left scars. Nothing was the same as it had been before- nothing would ever be the same, and yet life carried on the best it could.

In all honesty it was somewhat of a shock that Hawkins, Indiana, was not completely abandoned by its residents following the events of 1984. But, the people of this town were tough, stubborn, and would simply not be run out of their homes by _monsters,_ no matter what MKUltra had unleashed, and no matter what they had already faced. They had fought back, and they would continue to fight back until there was no fight life left in them. There was nothing else that could be done. Besides, if they fled and abandoned the fight, what would happen? Would the portals to the Upside Down spread like a plague across the land and poison everything that they ever loved and ever knew? It was a fate that was beyond comprehension, and the residents of Hawkins would be damned if they allowed the nightmares to win.

August of 1985 came cold and bitter; the heat of July laid way for a change in the air. The acrid smell of the impending downpour perpetually hung over Hawkins, from the morning of the first. August rains itself were inevitable, as the season shifted and lead back towards the encroaching winter, but this storm seemed different. The rain never came. The first few days it was seemingly normal; a brewing storm that would lash at the windows and doors and briefly flood the streets with several inches of water over the weekend. But the rain never came. The sky remained blackened and the clouds hung heavy with water.

On Friday, August 2nd, Nancy Wheeler came home from the diner with six takeaway boxes. Setting her purse and keys down, she called through the house. “Mike! El! I got breakfast!” She paused, her brows furrowing together slightly as she shrugged it off. “Okay, maybe lunch…”  Hearing the movement in the basement, she couldn’t help but smirk just a little to herself, before calling out again. “You too Dustin! Lucas! Will!”

The boys bounded up the stairs and into the kitchen; Eleven followed behind them quietly. Nancy smiled as they seated themselves at the table and she started popping open the Styrofoam containers open. Setting the contain she was holding down in front of El, she turned and moved to the other side of the kitchen, grabbing forks and knives and quickly returning in time to see El’s eyes light up at the sight of the waffles laden with fresh fruit, whipped cream, and syrup (to be honest the mixture sort of made Nancy feel sick, but she knew the girl loved it, and after all she had been through…)

“Thank you.” Eleven turned and smiled up at the older girl. Across the table, Mike grinned as he chewed on a piece of bacon.

“Thanks Nancy!” Dustin bounced a little as he looked up at her.

“Yeah, thanks Nance!” Lucas accepted a fork quickly and set in on the plate of eggs and bacon.

Will smiled, but remained somewhat quiet; his eyes were on the storm clouds outside the window, which had been hanging there since the previous morning. Lost in thought, it was obvious that he had never really had regained himself after returning from the Upside Down – none of them _really_ had recovered. They’d simply moved on.

Nancy swallowed tightly and forced a smile as she looked at the younger Byers boy. “How’s your brother, Will?”

Will nodded as he looked at a forkful of hashbrowns, “He’s alright. He’s been trying to fix his camera – the lens broke last week and I think he said something about the shutter timing being off.”

Nancy settled into her seat with a fork, keeping her attention on Will as she opened her own takeaway container. “Are the lenses very expensive?”

Will chewed and nodded his head. “It’ll be more than a hundred dollars, most likely. I told him he can probably get another camera for that though.”

Nancy nodded quietly. “But that one means a lot to him. Tell him I’ll help pay for the lens if I can.”

Mike’s head snapped up as he looked at his sister. Her generosity was appreciated, but he knew what the Byers family was like – they wouldn’t accept the help offered. Nancy knew this as well, though she chose to ignore it.

Dustin and Lucas glanced at each other over the table, but remained quiet as they ate. Eleven saw nothing amiss, intent on her waffles in a place she felt safe.

“Oh!” Nancy suddenly jolted as she remembered what she meant to say to Mike.

Mike nearly choked on his scrambled eggs, as she scared him. He coughed a bit, and Eleven immediately turned to him worriedly. He waved her off as he caught his breath. “What’s wrong?” he finally wheezed a little exasperatedly.

Nancy smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.” She perked up. “I met our new neighbor!”

“Neighbor?” Mike’s brows furrowed .

“Well, he’s not _really_ our neighbor. He lives over on Tanglewood Drive – he must have bought Mrs. Wallace's little old house.”

“Oh.”

The silence that fell over the kitchen was thick; almost a living creature itself.

El looked at her friends with quiet curiosity before turning to Nancy. “Who’s Mrs. Wallace?”

Nancy shook her head a little. “She was an older lady that lived in town. She died three years ago; she used to baby sit Mike and the boys when they were little.”

“How did she die?”

“El…” Mike pleaded quietly, and she turned to look at him questioningly.

“She had a heart attack.” Dustin broke the silence. “She was gone before anyone could help her.”

“I’m sorry.” Turning back to her waffles, El stayed quiet.

“So what’s this new guy like?” Lucas changed the subject.

Nancy shrugged her shoulders a little. “He’s…” she fought to find the best description for the man she had met that morning on her way back from the diner. “…quiet.”

“Quiet? How?” Mike, recovered from the secondary onset of sadness at the loss of Mrs. Wallace, wanted to focus on something different.

Nancy shrugged a bit. “He’s… he doesn’t really speak. He said his name and that was about all. But he studied me… his eyes were constantly moving around and tracking me. Actually it was quite unnerving –  like he knew more about me than he let on.” A shudder ran down her spine.

“But… If all he said was his name, how do you know he lives in Mrs. Wallace’s house?” Dustin focused on Nancy for a moment before glancing at his friends.

“Hm? Oh I…” Nancy paused for a moment and tried to pinpoint how she knew where he lived, but she didn’t remember how it came up. Still, she had stood talking to him for a few minutes, though he hadn’t said much. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and pushed her confusion aside. “He must have told me when he introduced himself.”

“He sounds like a weirdo.” Lucas blurted out without thought as he rolled his eyes, and went back to his bacon.

“No kidding.” Will responded under his breath.

“What’s his name?” Mike, finished with his eggs, set his fork down on the table and moved the Styrofoam aside.

“George Percival.”

Beside Mike, Eleven’s body language changed. Her shoulders tensed, and she slowly looked up from the last of her waffles. Her breathing had changed.

Mike noticed the change in her instantly. His brows knit in concern as he looked at her, studying her for a moment to figure out what happened. “El? What’s wrong?”

Though she was still tense, El brushed it aside. “Nothing.” With a forced smile, she turned to Mike, and moved back to finishing her breakfast.

“Yeah, okay… I don’t like the look of that.” Lucas had been watching Eleven the entire time. “All Nance did was say this guy’s name and El nearly broke the fork she was holding – look! It’s bent!” he pointed across the table to where the silverware had been set down.

The fork was indeed mangled; Eleven’s grip had been so tight that she managed to bend it into a rough V shape.

El’s eyes flickered to the fork. “Sorry.”

Nancy shook her head. “Its fine El, it’s just a fork.” She smiled as she stood up and picked up the containers that were already empty, and carried them to the garbage.

“Do you know him?” Mike tried to steer the conversation back to George Percival, but El only shook her head in answer.

“You don’t know him?” Dustin tried again, for confirmation, and again El shook her head.

“I don’t know him.”

“Guys… I _know_ it’s hard, but we can’t be suspicious of every person that comes to Hawkins. Yeah to us the town is … well… but to the outside world it’s just another Midwest town. People are going to move here, start families, and just… exist.” Nancy sighed softly as she settled in her seat at the table again.

“Well, one thing’s for sure.” Mike spoke up, and the others turned to look at him. “If he _is_ just a guy, George Percival is going to regret the day he moved to Hawkins.”

\---

Jonathan Byers sighed as he looked over the camera again. He’d already taken the mechanisms apart and cleaned them, hoping that would help reset the timing of the shutter. So far it _seemed_ to be working, but the damaged lens was another issue all together. While a Pentax K mounted lens wasn’t uncommon by any means, it _was_ going to be expensive, which meant it was going to take time to acquire, since his first and foremost concern was helping his mother support the family. Maybe he could pick up an extra- he stopped himself and turned his head away from the camera for a moment.

Will had gone missing the night he picked up another shift to help his mother, and despite everything, Jonathan still blamed himself for what had happened to his younger brother. If he’d been home, while it might not have made any difference, he _might_ have been able to stop Will from being dragged into the Upside Down.

At least Will was returned now, though not all of him came back. He’d been changed by his experiences, and it was obvious day by day. Will had always been rather quiet by nature, he and Jonathan were the same in that aspect, but it was more pronounced following his rescue.

Jonathan rose from his place sitting at the small kitchen table, and put his broken camera into its protective case. He might as well go and price the lens, to see how much he needed to save. Besides, the walk into town would do him some good, and with a little luck maybe he could stop by work and try to get an extra shift for either that night or Saturday night, giving time for his mother to get home so that someone was always with Will – not that he wasn’t safe with his friends. But, in place of their own father, Jonathan felt responsible for his brother.

The rain was impending; the air was saturated, and everything felt damp. By that night it would surely be storming, if not sooner. Jonathan eyed the sky cautiously as he walked, and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, raising his shoulders (the camera bag balanced on his right shoulder) in the off chance that the sky let loose before he reached the camera repair shop on Spruce Avenue.

Inside the store, Jonathan headed to the Pentax lenses in their case. After a moment of searching, his eyes skating over the various model numbers, he finally found one that matched the one that had broken on his Pentax K1000. He tilted his head to the side to see the price tag that was set just aside from the lens itself – and almost choked. It had a _$150_ price tag. He’d have to work 60 hours to accommodate that price (due to a third of his pay going to taxes after all). It was possible, but it would take some time, especially with Will starting high school at the end of the month; school supplies were more important than the camera lens.

The bell attached to the damper of the front door jingled as another customer stepped inside. The clerk nodded his head in greeting to the man.

“Can I help you with something?” Mr. Bowers inquired happily as he watched the younger man walk around the counter.

The man glanced to him, but made no other acknowledgement, as he moved into the store and started to browse through lighting supplies.

Jonathan didn’t even notice the other customer, it wasn’t as though he was the _only_ person in Hawkins with a love of photography, and he certainly wasn’t daft enough to think that he was. His mind was still on the broken camera in the bag at his hip, and the need to replace the lens. Although he knew it was pointless, Jonathan fished his wallet out of his pocket, and opened it to see what money he _did_ have on him. $10. Certainly better than nothing, but nowhere near enough.

Maybe Mr. Bowers would be willing to let him pay for the lens in installments, after all Jonathan had always been a good customer, and had always paid what was due.

The other customer found what he was looking for; selecting an Ianiro Ianebeam 800 portable lighting stand. He headed to the counter, passing Jonathan on the way. He glanced at the teenager, and noted the darkened, but determined, expression on his face. He set the lighting kit on the counter, but stepped aside for Jonathan.

Jonathan shot the man a questioning look, but nodded his thanks and approached the clerk.

Mr. Bowers smiled brightly, “Jonathan Byers! One of my best customers! What can I do for you today?”

Jonathan swallowed tightly, not exactly sure how to ask what he needed to. “My Pentax lens cracked last week.”

“How did you manage that?” Bowers’ brows lifted in surprise.

“I was taking a photo of the lightning storm last Saturday night, and one bolt came too close. I think the electrical impulse in the air just happened to find a fault in the glass.” Jonathan shrugged and managed a sheepish smile.

“Well, we have plenty of lenses in stock-“

“Uh, I know, Mr. Bowers…” Jonathan glanced to the side and saw the other man watching him intently. A feeling of dread washed over him, and he pushed it aside as just a welling of anxiety over the situation he was finding himself now in. “The thing is I don’t have $150 for the lens. I was wondering if I could put it back on layaway? I have $10 I can give you for the first installment.”

Mr. Bowers’ expression sank and he looked at the young man a little critically. “I’m sorry Mr. Byers, but I can’t put a $150 lens on _layaway_ for you. This isn’t K-Mart, and if I did it for you, I would have to do it for everyone that came in and couldn’t afford their equipment- and then nothing would ever be paid for.” His tone turned haughty.

Jonathan balked, stepped back, and backtracked slightly. “No, sir. I meant I could start paying for the lens, and then I know that there will be one here for me when I have the money. I don’t want to take it today having only paid $10.”

“I cannot do that for you, Mr. Byers. You’ll have to come back when you _do_ have the money.”

Jonathan nodded his head, knowing that it had been a long shot to begin with. “Thank you, Mr. Bowers.” He turned to leave, but the other customer’s voice stopped him.

“I’ll pay for the lens.” The statement was directed to Mr. Bowers, rather than Jonathan himself. The man's tone was stern and solid, though his voice was a little nasal and cut like flint through flesh.

Jonathan immediately turned around, eyes widened in semi-horror. “Sir, no I couldn’t ask –“

The man, maybe in his middle thirties, turned to look at Jonathan and simply bowed his head. “You didn’t have to ask.” He turned back to Mr. Bowers and repeated himself more firmly. “I will pay for Mr. Byers’ lens.” He enunciated the phrase clearly, and the sound and tone of his voice sent chills flooding down Jonathan’s spine. He was frozen in place. Something seemed very wrong about the man.

Mr. Bowers must have had a similar feeling, as he did _not_ ask a second time, choosing instead to scurry out from behind his counter with his keys and disappear into the store, heading in the direction of the lens case that Jonathan had come from moments earlier.

His heart was beating erratically, as Jonathan slowly turned his eyes towards the man standing at the counter. Something about him was amiss, and now that he stood alone before him, Jonathan finally noticed the sense of oppression that seemed to follow the man like a cloak. There was dread in the air, and though unspoken, it threatened the space which this man occupied.

Thankfully, the man’s attention was no longer on Jonathan, instead his eyes were firmly locked on the blackened sky outside the front windows of the photography supply store. This gave Jonathan a chance to study him, the way that he had been studying him before.

He was a stranger that much was inescapably obvious; Jonathan had never seen the man before. He briefly wondered why someone would drive to Hawkins just to come to the camera store – didn’t other places carry the lighting unit that he was buying? The man was tall, easily taller than Jonathan himself – he suspected that he was around six feet, and he appeared to have a lean muscular build under the black bomber jacket that he was wearing. His hair was dark, darker than his own, and he wore it parted deeply to one side with the fringe swept back; the sides and back seemed to be closer cropped. The man was pale – Caucasian, but pallid even for the Midwest. Granted that Jonathan could only now see the side of his face, something about this man looked… different. He pushed the thought aside.

He was just a stranger, that’s all, and nothing more.

The moments before Mr. Bowers returned felt like an eternity. As the clerk set the lens on the counter alongside the portable light that the stranger had picked, Jonathan tried once more to stop the sale of the lens. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the offer, only that the situation felt _wrong_. As though something was happening that could not be undone should the sale be allowed to go through. All he knew was that he wasn’t entirely keen on the idea of owing this man _anything_.

“Sir, please you don’t have to buy the lens.” Jonathan all but pleaded. He hated feeling this vulnerable – like a trapped animal.

The stranger turned to look at him once more, and this time he smiled. But he turned back to Mr. Bowers and handed the $500 for the combined lens and lighting unit in cash to the clerk.

The sale was final.

The stranger turned back to Jonathan and nodded his head to him in greeting, before he picked up the case for his lighting stand, and walked out the door, leaving the camera shop behind.

Jonathan was rooted to the floor, watching the man leave, before something in him snapped. No time to worry, no time to dwell, he grabbed the lens off of the counter and pulled his Pentax K1000 out of the bag by his hip. He hurried out the door after the man, while quickly attaching the lens to the mount. He raised the camera just as the man reached the other side of the street. Moving as quickly as he could manage while focusing the camera, Jonathan Byers took three photos in quick succession, each of them centered on the man.

Jonathan reached home as quickly as he could, hoping to get there before either his mother or brother came home. He tossed his jacket aside the moment he was in the door, and immediately headed for his makeshift dark room, intent on developing the photos of the stranger. He couldn’t explain it, he just _needed_ to see the finished photos.

In the room lit only by a red light bulb, Jonathan worked the photos through various chemical baths, before hanging the three sheets up to dry. Stepping back, he watched as the images slowly started to develop. Each of the images revealed the same truth; the stranger was not caught by the camera, but rather where he _should_ have been, was a dark smudge in a vaguely humanoid shape.

The pit in Jonathan’s stomach seemed to deepen. He had repaired the camera himself, it should have been working properly. But, he could hardly deny the results as presented in front of him. Obviously the Pentax was still malfunctioning, in order to produce such a defect.

Jonathan stared at the photos and rubbed his face worriedly. There was something ominous about the stranger, and he didn’t know what to think of him.

The phone ringing broke his reverie, and leaving the photos to finish developing, Jonathan slipped out of the dark room and picked up the phone. “Hello? What? Oh, yeah. Yeah that’s fine. I’ll tell Mom.”

When Joyce Byers dragged herself into her house that night, she was bone weary and on edge. Lonnie had called the store to berate her, and it had killed whatever small amount of happiness that she’d had in her. But the moment she was in the house, she immediately noticed something amiss. Her heart leapt into her throat and she rounded around to face her eldest. “Where’s Will?!”

“Mom, it’s okay.” He held his hands up in a pacifying manner, trying to mitigate the panic attack before it came. “Will called an hour ago – he’s staying at the Wheelers’ tonight. He’s perfectly safe with El in the house.”

Joyce’s shoulders sagged and she nodded as she exhaled slowly. “Right, you’re right.” She sank into the worn out couch and put her face into her hands as she fought to slow her heart-rate.

“Mom, he’s fine.” Jonathan sat down beside her, putting his arm around his mother’s shoulders and pulling her close.

Joyce nodded, staying quiet as she leaned against her son for a long moment. Finally regaining herself, she lifted her head and glanced up at the nineteen-year-old. “Did you get your camera working?”

“Sort of… I thought I’d fixed the shutter speed, but then the issue was with the lens.”

“Did you find out how much it’ll be to replace? Maybe we can get one next week when my pay comes in –“

“Mom… the lenses are $150 a piece.”

Joyce’s eyes widened and she started trembling slightly, knowing she couldn’t afford _that_ price any time soon. “Jonathan I’m – I’m sorry-“

Jonathan shook his head, “Mom it’s alright. It’s not the lens anyway…” He swallowed tightly.

“Oh?” Joyce perked up. “Did Mr. Bowers let you test one?”

“No… though I probably should have done that _first_.” Jonathan blinked.

Joyce’s brows furrowed together and she silently mouthed a few words before shaking it off. “What did you do?”

“I asked Mr. Bowers if I could put a deposit on a lens and pay him by layaway.”

Joyce jerked her head back, “Does he do that?”

“Uh…. No.” Jonathan pushed his hair back and rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Wait, so what happened? Jonathan... you didn't steal one, did you?"

“What? Mom no! This guy came into the store to buy a light stand, and… he offered to pay for the lens for me –“ seeing the look instantly cross his mother’s face, Jonathan shook his head. “I told him it was alright, but he wouldn’t take no as an answer…”

“So, what, he just bought you a $150 lens?!” Joyce couldn’t stop herself from shouting in surprise. “Who _does_ that?!”

“I don’t know – I’ve never _seen_ him before. I didn’t ask him to do it, I didn’t want him to do it – he just… did it. It was over before I could even move out of my spot on the floor.” He sighed and scrubbed at his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you at least get his name? Maybe we can send him money bit by bit to pay him back…”  At the sight of her eldest son’s guilty expression, she sighed.

“He didn’t give a name – not even to Mr. Bowers. He just paid for his light, the lens, nodded and headed off. But I hurried out after him, and tried to take his photo. I thought, maybe, it could help?”

Jonathan left out the part about the stranger being so disconcerting to him that he felt the _need_ to photograph him, as if capturing his image would make him real and confirm the truth in his mind; that the man was truly just a kind (if not cold) soul that was just helping him out with money.

“Can I see?” Joyce glanced up, and Jonathan nodded, glancing down distractedly.

He turned on his heel and walked back to his makeshift dark room. Pulling the three photos down from the clothes line, he collected them and walked back out the small living room, handing them over to his mother.

“I still think there’s something wrong with the camera, but at least it’s not the lens now. Anything else and I can probably fix it.” Jonathan swallowed tightly as Joyce turned her attention from him and down to the three letter sized photographs.

Joyce’s brows furrowed together as she looked at the first photo, it was the most human shaped of the three black smudge photos, and still it wasn’t indicative of a person. Going through the other two, she looked back up at her son. “That’s a strange defect… Almost looks like black smoke.”

Something clicked in Joyce Byers’ mind at that moment. “Oh! Could a fly have gotten inside while you were putting the lens on the mounting?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Jonathan shrugged easily. It made for a fitting answer. “Yeah, actually you’re probably right. I’ll go take it apart again before it can do any more damage.”

Joyce smiled, but glanced to the photos once more as Jonathan turned away from her. She eyed them with a wide-eyed sense of revulsion. While she knew it was most likely just a defective camera, there was something dreadfully unnatural about the way the figure of the man had smudged and blurred in the photographs. It chilled her, though after the last two years, it wasn’t to be unexpected.

The thunder started rolling that night; massive rumbling booms that shook the windows in the houses of Hawkins. Loud enough that it was a wonder that the earth didn't split wide open. The bright shocks of lightning arced across the sky, creating an electric lattice work. It started just after 11 pm, and sent a brief surge through the Wheeler house; digital clocks flashed, reset after the break in power. 

Mike, Lucas, Dustin, Will, and El were sleeping in the basement – still a typical place for the group to congregate.

With the rumbling of the thunder as the background soundtrack, Eleven began to quietly whimper in her sleep. Tossing and turning, she remained bound in her nightmare. Near her, Dustin snuffled in his sleep, but hearing her slight whimpers, soon woke up.

Dustin watched her for a moment, worriedly, hoping that the girl would wake up on her own. But, when she didn’t and instead proceeded to grow more and more violent in her tossing and turning, he turned to Mike. Grabbing the other boy by the shoulder, he shook him. “Mike!” He hissed, but the Wheeler boy didn’t wake up immediately, and Dustin rolled his eyes. He leaned in and tried again, a little louder. “MIKE!”

Snorting and snapping awake, Mike scrambled and grabbed onto his nearby flashlight, and switched it on. He quickly looked around, but before he could ask why Dustin woke him up – he caught sight of El, struggling in her bedding. “El!” he gasped and moved towards her.

At the same time, El snapped awake, instantly stilling her movements. She stared up at the ceiling, still trembling in fear. A small bead of blood trickled down from her nostril.

Behind them, the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, but the rain had yet to come.

“El, what’s wrong?” Mike moved to sit on his knees closer to her.

Her voice was affected by her fear; afraid and shaken. “He’s coming… He’s coming!”

Lucas rubbed his eyes as he sat up slowly. Blinking hard to fight off sleep. “What? Who’s coming?”

“HE’S. COMING!”


	2. The God Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this update has come fairly quickly after the posting of the fic, but that will likely not continue. I am currently aiming for Saturday updates.

“I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.” Mike shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes on the carpeted floor of his basement.

“Mike, seriously…” Dustin nudged. “She knows the difference between real life and a _movie_!”

“ _Come on_ , Mike. She was fine with _Ladyhawke_ , why would this be any different?” Lucas gestured aggressively towards the copy of the poster for _The Black Cauldron_ printed in the entertainment section of the Hawkins newspaper.

Mike’s shoulders lifted slightly, before he sighed. They were right, and there was no point in protecting El from … well, anything. She’d managed on her own thus far. And he _did_ want to see the movie… “Alright.” Looking up, he grinned at the three other boys. “We’ll go tonight.”

Lucas, Dustin, and Will looked at each other, grinning as they high-fived.

But the occurrence of the night before was still nagging at Mike, niggling away in the back of his mind. It wasn’t that he thought a Disney movie of all things would upset Eleven, but he _was_ worried about her. She’d been so terrified the night before, so frantic, that she’d not been able to fall back asleep, and that made Mike himself unable to settle. He was worried that she seemed more frightened during the storm last night, than she had during the entire Demogorgon incident – and she’d been relatively terrified at that time too. And, if El was scared, then…

Despite the storm the night before, the skies over Hawkins were just as black and heavy as they had been the two days previous. Although the thunder had rumbled and the lightning had cut through the heavens, no rain had come. Friday, August 2nd, had remained dry despite the thick and damp air. Saturday dawned in the same conditions.

Will seemed quieter than normal, as he sat with his friends in the basement of the Wheeler house. His gaze kept flickering to window and there anchoring on the clouds. Mike and Lucas didn’t seem to notice the behavior, though that was _mostly_ to do with their on and off arguing over the D&D campaign. However, Dustin noticed the change in Will – though one couldn’t really call it a change, given all that had happened since November 6th, 1983. He watched his friend discreetly, and after the seventh time catching Will staring up at the sky with a look of pained worry on his face, Dustin finally had to speak up.

“Will, buddy, you okay?” his brows furrowed as he looked at the other boy, who seemed to have turned a shade paler than normal.

Will jolted as Dustin’s voice seemed to break through the din of the bickering in the background, and broke his concentration. He didn’t have time to school his features, as he turned to Dustin with a look of terror on his face before he could stop himself.

Lucas and Mike stopped their arguing when they heard Dustin speak, and now seeing the look on their friend’s face, they jumped into action.

“Will?!” Mike sat forward and grabbed his friend’s hand; he squeezed gently to assure the boy that he was there, that they all were. On Will’s other side, Lucas grabbed his other hand.

“I’m sorry.” Will swallowed and glanced down to the top of the table, embarrassed or ashamed of his worrying them.

“Screw that, there’s nothing to apologize for.” Lucas snorted quickly as he gave his friend a mildly reproachful look.

“What Lucas said.” Mike nodded in agreement.

Will remained silent for a moment as he  focused on the top of the table, unsure of what to say or do. “I’m scared…”

The three boys looked between themselves worriedly; if Will was scared, then something was _wrong._

“Of _what_?” Dustin hedged carefully.

“El… She was really afraid last night… and she said… she said…” Will’s voice weakened, trembling in fear as his body went tense. He wet his lips and pressed on. “I can _feel_ something… but I think it’s _already_ here.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and the tears dripped down his cheeks.

The weight of his words settled over the room like a lead blanket.

Something was wrong in Hawkins.

When  _wasn't_ something wrong in Hawkins?

The rain still hadn’t come by that night, and although the sun wasn’t meant to set until nearly 9pm, by the time the group of five friends left the Wheeler house at 7:30, it was already dark. As they peddled into town to make it to the eight o’clock showing of _The Black Cauldron_ , Hawkins seemed empty – especially for a summer Saturday. Maybe it was only in their minds, their thoughts still swirling around both Eleven’s fear from the night before, and Will’s confession earlier that afternoon.

There were a few people milling about town, had there been no one, the fear would have set in much faster, and the group would have likely abandoned their attempted a theater attendance, instead choosing to regroup in safe place in the off chance that something _was_ coming. But the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Heathcombe exiting the diner and waving to them as they passed gave the group a sense of appeasement. The closer they grew to the theater, the more people were around, and suddenly the sense of impending doom melted away into a regular summer night.

When they exited the theater two hours later, Dustin turned to the others. “Man, that’s what we need!”

“What? The Black Cauldron?” Lucas’ brows furrowed together as he looked at the other boy. “Are you crazy?! Demon king’s soul trapped in the metal – yeah that sounds like a _great_ idea!” Jabbing his thumb over his shoulder to Dustin, Lucas gave Mike, Will, and El a look that distinctly read _can you believe this?!_

“No! NOT the Black Cauldron!” Dustin huffed, lowering his voice in a mimicry of idiocy. “I meant the magic sword!”

“Who needs a magic sword when we’ve got El? Superpowers beat swords any day!” Mike argued, glancing at the girl standing at his side. El returned his gaze, and smiled silently.

“Wait, Dustin might be onto something.” Lucas held up his hand to stop Mike from saying anything immediately.

“Ya _think_?” Dustin looked between them all, with a look of disbelief.

“Where would we even _get_ a magic sword?” Mike huffed.

“That’s not the point.” Dustin shot back. “Tell me it wouldn’t be a good thing to have if it was possible?”

“I guess. Well, yeah. But it’s impossible!”

"At this point do you  _really_ think anything's impossible?" Lucas fired back.

Sitting on their bikes, bickering before they could leave, Mike, Dustin, and Lucas didn’t noticed the change in that atmosphere.

The air grew heavy to a point that it was almost suffocating. The energy shifted, though it was immediately noticeable only to El and Will. Both of the fourteen-year-olds slowly turned in their seats – El sitting being Mike as always, and Will on his own bike. As they slowly turned to look, afraid of what they might see, they held their breath as time slowed down.

Finally the others noticed the change in the countenance of their friends, and turned to follow their gaze. Only then did they notice that the weighted empty feeling had settled over the block surrounding the movie theater.  

From the alley beside the theater, a man dressed in a black leather jacket and grey-wash jeans emerged. The collar of his jacket was popped, standing up around the curve of his long jaw. His hair was dark, roughly comparable to El’s shade, while his complexion was pale. He walked like a soldier; posture straight and shoulders back. He kept his chin lifted, which gave to him a radiating sense of authority, that seeped along the night air with the crushing sense of dread that emerged from the alley along with him. The world seemed to slow as they laid eyes on him, and as he walked the stranger turned his head and gazed fully at the teenagers.

Will’s heart rate thumped an increase as he met the eyes of the man for a moment. He felt frozen under the man’s piercing gaze, as the panic set in. Something was certainly  _wrong._

Behind Mike, El suddenly groaned and put her hand to her forehead.

“El?!” Mike gasped seeing her movement, tearing his gaze away from the figure and focusing on the girl seated behind him. “What’s wrong?!”

Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment against the brightness of the theater marquee lights, she gave only one word as a response. “Headache.” She was cringing.

As he crossed the street, the man turned his gaze away from the group. The moment he was on the other side of the main street, the viscous energy that accompanied him finally thinned. It was though it engulfed him, following his every move - his very existence. 

Will was hyperventilating as he watched the man retreat. His head was starting to swim by the time the man was away from them. Thankfully, the stranger was going in the opposite direction of them; heading towards Tanglewood Drive, rather than the Wheeler house.

Mike glanced between Eleven and Will, before looking up at Lucas and Dustin. “Let’s get out of here.” He angled the handlebars of his bike around, and pushed off the pavement with his foot.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Dustin quickly followed Mike, while Lucas waited for Will to go ahead of him, allowing the Byers boy to remain safely in the center of their bicycle herd.

Bikes abandoned outside, the five of them safely holed up in the Wheeler basement, they sat together in a circle on the floor. The silence that had settled over them during the bike ride home, continued on now that they were fortified in the house.

“What the Hell was that?” Lucas broke the silence as looked between his friends. “Seriously. What. The. _Hell_?”

“Bad…” El’s answer was barely audible, but the boys all turned to look at her.

“Bad?” Will swallowed tightly as he looked at her, already he could feel the slight tremors of fear already starting to breed in his shoulders.

El nodded her head, “Bad… real bad.”

Lucas put his arm around her shoulders and hugged his telekinetic friend as Mike and Dustin exchanged a look that belied their sense of growing unease.

“Bad? Like Bad Men?” Mike looked at El. “From Hawkins Lab?”

Biting her lips, and brows knitting worriedly as her eyes widened, El shook her head. “No.”

“Not from Hawkins Lab?”

Again, Eleven shook her head. “Not Hawkins Lab.”

“He looked like a soldier.” The more Lucas thought about the man, the more it made sense to him. After all it was out of the question that the people of Hawkins Lab would keep their promise for long, especially since Dr. Brenner himself had already met his maker at the hands of the Demogorgon… why _wouldn’t_ they bring in new meat for their project?

Lucas lifted his eyes back to the group. “He _moved_ like a soldier. Do you think Hawkins Lab’s under new authority?”

“What, like Black Ops?” Dustin met Lucas’ eye.

“Yeah, I mean they’re not going to put just _anyone_ on the detail, right?”

“Shit…” Dustin hissed as the pieces started to fall into place in his mind.

The following morning Mike, Eleven, Dustin, and Lucas escorted Will home. Once he’d put his bike up on the porch, he waved at them before walking into the house. The others left when they knew he was safely inside; both Jonathan and Joyce’s cars were parked outside. The knowledge that he wasn’t alone brought them some comfort. Even though the path through  _Mirkwood_ to the Lab itself was all too close to the Byers' residence. 

Inside the Byers house, Jonathan stood at the stove, scrambling eggs in a cast iron pan; he looked up and half laughed. “There you are! Mom and I were starting to wonder if the Wheelers had given up and adopted you too.” From her place at the table, Joyce choked slightly on her morning coffee.

Will weakly half-laughed as he forced a smile. “Yeah, almost. Maybe next time.” He tried to tease back, but swallowed tightly and glanced around the kitchen. Although he knew that the house was safe, the knowledge that it was close enough to Hawkins Lab and thus to the Gate was enough to make his unease grow.

Jonathan’s dark brows furrowed and he glanced to his mother, who returned the concerned expression before turning back to her son. “Will? Are you okay?”

Broken once more from his reverie, Will looked up at his family and nodded in a strained manner. But, he couldn’t tell them anything yet – it didn’t make sense to him yet. “Yeah, just… didn’t sleep well.”

Joyce once again glanced to her eldest son before refocusing on her youngest. “Was the movie scary? The review said it was kinda _dark_.”

Will shook his head, “No…”

When he trailed off, Jonathan decided to change the subject. Dishing out the scrambled eggs on to three plates with the few pieces of bacon he’d fried and the buttered toast, he carried two the table. Setting one down in front of his mother, he set the other down in Will’s normal seat and nudged his brother gently. When Will seated himself, Jonathan carried his own plate to the table and sat across from him.

“So how _was_ the movie?” Joyce smiled at Jonathan in thanks for the eggs, before glancing back at Will.

Will shrugged his shoulders as he picked up his fork. “It was okay I guess. Could have been better. The story seemed to be a bit lacking – I liked Gurgi though, and Hen Wen – the pig.”

The conversation at the breakfast table thankfully melted into an easy atmosphere.

“You wanna see something weird” Jonathan smiled at his fourteen-year-old brother.

Will perked up in his seat, this time smiling for real. “Yeah!”

Getting up from the table, Jonathan grabbed the paper folder he’d slid the defective photos of the stranger into two nights before. Returning, he sat down beside his brother in the chair that their father once occupied.

“Did you fix your camera?!” Will gasped before he’d even seen the images; Jonathan laughed.

“Yeah, buddy. I even got a new lens for it.” He smiled as he opened the folder. Will’s attention was still on his brother’s face, smiling brightly. “I went into Mr. Bowers’ shop and this man came in, he offered to buy the lens for me, so I got it replaced. I took these photos of him just after he left.” Jonathan turned the photos to his kid brother.

Will, smiling, tore his gaze from Jonathan and down to the photos. The colour drained out of his face at the sight of the black _mass_ that stood in place of the man in the photo. He started sweating nervously.

Jonathan didn’t notice Will’s reaction. “It was weird, I thought maybe the camera was still malfunctioning – or maybe a bug got inside like Mom thought. But I took it all apart again on Friday night and there was nothing in there. Every other photo’s come out fine.” His eyes flickered to Will, and he finally saw the look on the boy’s face. “Are you okay?”

Will’s mouth ran dry, and he forced himself to nod his head. “Yeah… yeah sorry. It’s just…. I _really_ don’t like these.”

“I know, they’re a little creepy… so was the guy.” Jonathan covered the photos again and moved the folder away from Will. “I mean he wasn’t… he was nice enough, I guess? He didn’t have to do what he did, but… he just seemed a little weird to me.” Shrugging his shoulders, “didn’t mean to scare you, buddy.”

Will shook his head a little. He _definitely_ knew something was wrong. He could feel it, even just looking at the photos. He highly suspected the stranger that he’d seen the night before was the corrupted form in the photographs, and silently wondered how he could possibly change the way he appeared on film.

Sunday passed into Monday, and turned into Tuesday, rolled over by Wednesday.

Wednesday the 7th of August found the group together again. Dustin leaned back in the chair as he stared at his friends for a moment. “You’re never going to believe this shit.”

“Try us.”

“I’m with my Mom yesterday, right? We’re walking past Radio Shack when that creep comes out the door. Guys, guys… he’s way weirder up-close. I mean _way_ weirder.”

“How?” Mike spoke up.

“How? I mean like he never stops looking around! His eyes never stopped moving the entire time my Mom was talking to him!”

“Wait, your Mom _talked_ to him?!” Lucas looked at Dustin incredulously.

“Yeah, and it gets worse guys… so much worse.” Dustin sighed softly and raised his hand, rubbing his forehead under his trucker’s cap. “She fucking invited him to dinner on Friday.”

“Bullshit!” The others gasped.

“Guys I shit you not, my mother invited that freak to dinner. This is bad.” Flopping back in the chair, Dustin looked between them. “For all we know he’s some Government ROBOT – I mean the guy freaking acts like the _Terminator_!”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up. What do you mean he’s worse up close?”

“I mean he’s _weirder_ up close. I mean he’s odd-looking, right? I mean he _is_ odd looking, but it gets worse when you’re in front of him.”

“Worse _how?_ ” Lucas hedged. Beside him Will thought he already knew the answer, but swallowed it down.

“Like he’s got… I dunno, he’s…” Dustin paused for a moment and focused on what the man had looked like. “Okay he’s got really sharp cheekbones and a strong brow-bone, which makes him have these really deep-set eyes that never stop investigating. When he _wasn’t_ staring right through me, he was looking around like he was watching for something to appear. Like a hunter! I don’t know how to be any clearer about this, guys.” Dustin gestured to emphasize his point. “But he’s _not_ just some dude that moved to town last week.”

“So that _is_ the guy that Nancy met last Friday…”

“Definitely.”

“Did he say anything to your Mom?”

“That’s the weird thing – I swear they had a whole conversation but I don’t remember him saying _anything_. I don’t even remember him saying his name but he must have. And he must have agreed to come to dinner, but unless I blacked out or some shit, I don’t have a clue what the hell is going on.”

“So he’s actually going to be in your house on Friday night.” Mike glanced up, his expression betraying the idea that he was having.

“Yeah- “ seeing Mike’s face, Dustin’s eyes widened. “No, oh _no._ No! Mike come on!” the protestations wouldn’t be enough.

“Come on Dustin! We might not get another chance like this!”

“Uh, _yeah_ we probably will! He keeps showing up where he shouldn’t! Pretty sure even _your_ parents will eventually invite him to dinner!”

“So? We need to know if he’s from Hawkins Lab! Right El?” Mike turned to look at the girl.

Eleven met his gaze tiredly. “Yes.”

Dustin sighed in irritation, conceding. “Fine! But if I die, I’m coming back and haunting your asses.”

“So… you think he’s, what, the new head of Hawkins Lab?” Will finally spoke up as he looked at the others.

“Probably. He’s gotta be in his thirties so he’s got to have been in ‘Nam…” Lucas picked at the table top with his finger nail. Who knows, he could be a General by this point.”

“If he was, we’d probably have heard his name before.” Mike suggested.

“Cheeuh! Right because the Government is going to tell the world the name of their Black Ops soldiers! He’s gotta be pretty high ranking on his own if he’s taken over Hawkins Lab.” Dustin snorted.

Will kept his eyes down, “So that’s all you think he is?”

“Yeah, why? Wait, what do you think he is?”

Will shrugged his shoulders as he kept his eyes locked on the wood.

“Will… Friends don’t lie.” Eleven’s soft voice cut through the tension in the room.

“I don’t _know_ what I think. He scares me – the sight of him makes my blood run cold and I can’t breathe.”

Eleven nodded her head. “Me too.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

Lucas lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead as he closed his eyes. “So what do we have? A guy that makes us all uncomfortable, who’s obviously a soldier, and who is… going to the Henderson house for dinner in two days. Great.” He turned to glance at Dustin. “Try not to get kidnapped by MKUltra as a replacement for Eleven.”

Dustin’s posture immediately changed and he sat forward “That’s not funny, Lucas. That’s not funny!”

“Bad man…” El breathed softly.

\---

Joyce Byers paused as she saw the car parked outside of her house. Finally off work for the night after a double shift, all she wanted to do was find something small to eat, and crawl into bed. That was _clearly_ not going to be the case tonight, however.

“Lonnie…” sighing under her breath, Joyce parked her car and slid out of the driver’s seat. When the steel door clicked closed behind her, she started up the shallow hill towards her house, passing the laundry that was hanging to dry. Shaking her head in a mixture of exhaustion and irritation, she stepped up onto the porch – and immediately heard the yelling coming from inside the house. Body reacting with pure frustration, Joyce closed her eyes and let her head flop back for a moment, as she silently called for God's help.

Inside Jonathan and his father were like two wild animals; one the old, immovable alpha, and one the new, stronger, contender. Like two lions circling each other just waiting for the tension to snap and for the battle to begin. She was so tired of this shit, the whole point of a divorce was to stop the arguing, at least as far as she was concerned – not make it _worse._

“I have a _right_ to see my son, Jonathan!” Lonnie shouted, jabbing his finger into the nineteen-year-old’s chest.

“You _never_ cared about him before! Then you had the nerve to blame Mom for what happened to Will! And all you wanted was the _money_! You didn’t care about Will! You never have!”

“He’s _my_ son, kid – and so are you! I’ll be damned if I let you talk to me like that!”

“ _Let_ me talk to you like that?! You are in _our_ house! You came here and the first thing you do is start a fight!”

Joyce listened for a moment, not exactly sure how to break up the battle, but she was shaking with her own pent up anger.

“I have a _right_ to see my kid!” Again, Lonnie shouted in Jonathan’s face.

Joyce, in the doorway, saw Will’s pale and scared face peak out from the hallway, and she’d had enough. She'd had enough to last for a lifetime. 

“Lonnie get out of my house!” She snapped as she threw her purse loudly to the side.

Pausing mid-aggression, Lonnie slowly turned and looked towards his ex-wife. The brief moment gave him time enough to gather his thoughts. “Excuse me?”

Joyce moved forward, slotting herself between her ex and her eldest son. “You heard me Lonnie. Get out.” She was trembling in a heady mixture of fear and anger.

Lonnie half laughed, and gestured around the living room in front of him, “What, I can’t come to see my son?”

“No, you can’t just force your way in here and - and –“

“ _Force_ my way in here?!” Lonnie half-shouted, and Joyce instantly flinched. She shivered slightly, but she wasn’t going to let him force her into submission this time.

“That’s what I said." She reiterated forcefully. "You can’t just force yourself in here when being a father suits your fancy! We didn’t need you _then_ and we don’t need you _now.”_ Joyce swallowed tightly around the terror lump that was forming in her throat.

“They’re MY kids too, Joyce!” He shouted back in her face.

“You’ve been drinking! Get lost, Lonnie!” Joyce shouted back.

Something in Lonnie Byers snapped. Arching his arm back, he backhanded his ex-wife before either she or Jonathan had the time to register what was happening.

Joyce gasped as her head was thrown to the side. Instantly Jonathan was on his father. He grabbed his shoulders and pulled his arms back, throwing his arm through his father’s, effectively binding Lonnie’s hands behind his back - it was a hold that he'd seen both Hop and the Military Police use. “That’s _enough_ , Lonnie!” Jonathan growled as he directed the man towards the open front door. Lonnie stumbled as he was railroaded out of the door, before Jonathan threw him off the porch. As he caught himself, the door of his ex-wife’s house slammed shut; Lonnie heard the locks turn as he brushed himself off.

Inside, Joyce had sunk down onto her living room floor and started crying – an expression of pure exhaustion. She’d held on for so long against Lonnie – not just _this_ time, but every time before it. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. Jonathan sank to his knees beside his mother, and pulled her close; hugging her and holding her against himself as he comforted her.

Growling under his breath, Lonnie got into his car, and slammed the door loudly – hoping it made all three of the people in the house jolt with fear. Jamming his keys into the ignition and revving the engine three times, Lonnie tore away from the house, all while yelling obscenities out the window, aimed at his ex.

It didn’t mean anything to Joyce; she’d smelled the whiskey on him the moment she got close. She knew he was drunk, and Lonnie was an angry drunk when it came to hard liquor. He was an absentee father, and husband, at the _best_ of times, but at the worst – well… they were divorced for a reason. And nothing in the world could make her go back to that way of living.

Outside, Lonnie ground several gears as he tore off of the property, heading back to the main road. The interior of the car, save for the sound of his grinding gears and his anger, was silent. The radio hadn’t worked in ages, and the tape deck was jammed – it would only add further anger to his drive back to Indianapolis.

Lonnie Byers tore through Hawkins at breakneck speeds – driving well over the speed limit, and blasting the horn every time he came to an intersection that he didn’t care to stop at. He wanted out of Hawkins. The faster he was out, the better.

As he reached the outermost edges, on the opposite side of the town from Joyce’s house, he started to calm down, just a little. The atmosphere shifted, and overhead the thunder finally started to roll; the rain that had not yet fallen in the last week, might finally let itself loose.

Something about the rolling of the thunder was wrong. Lonnie _felt_ it more than he heard it, feeling it in his chest and all around himself. The storm must have been close - he might even be driving under the epicenter of it. The steel of his vehicle quaked slightly as the rumbling continued. Without warning, the car radio popped and fizzled, before suddenly crackling to life. The beginning of the message was a bit garbled, but Lonnie heard the last word loud and clear:

_family._

In front of his car, the asphalt cracked, the fissure spreading and expanding rapidly as the road heaved like a massive serpent. Large chunks of concrete started to fall away as the sinkhole opened, and the terrain altered itself. It had happened so quickly, and he was speeding so far over the limit, that Lonnie never had a chance to avoid the gaping maw of the earth.

His car flew off the edge of the broken pavement, and plummeted into the darkness.

Above him, the opening  juddered, and shrank. It sealed over; snapping shut once more.

The road out of Hawkins was undamaged; the pavement was as structurally sound as ever. Nothing had changed; the surface of the surrounding land hadn't raised or sunk even an inch.

The Oldsmobile 442 slammed into the earth with a loud crash. Rattled, but alive, Lonnie’s hand went to his head as he forced the crumpled door open. He fought his way out of the destroyed vehicle, and looked around.

He was on the same road he had just fallen through; in the near distance, the sign clearly read _Now Leaving Hawkins_. But where it had been daylight moments previously, the sky here was dark and sunless beyond even the hanging storm over Hawkins. The trees were dark, barren, and bore something that looked like a parasitic algae. The air here was heavy, and each breath burned just a little in his lungs. Around him, what looked like volcanic ash floated freely like falling snow.

This place was devoid of all life, save for Lonnie Byers.  


	3. The Mysterious Mr. Percival

“Guys, is this _super_ necessary?” Dustin sighed as Lucas and Mike positioned the small Wireless FM mini tie-clip microphone into the pocket of his jacket.

“It transmits to any FM radio, of course its necessary!”

“What Mike is _trying_ to say, is that we’ll be able to hear anything that he says.” Lucas swatted Dustin’s hand away.

“Thank goodness we’ve got El – this thing is only meant for 250 feet normally.”

“Wait, so you’re not coming with me?” Dustin’s head shot up as he looked at his friends.

The kids looked between themselves before looking back at him. “No?”

“Oh come on, I thought you’d at least sit outside or something! Now I’ve gotta interrogate some Black Ops guy on my own?!”

“You’re parents will be there.” Mike shrugged easily.

“Oh yeah, thanks that’s really helpful.” Dustin huffed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s _a lot_ of help – I think my Mom’s got a _crush_ on him.” He cringed and shuddered at the thought.

“We’ll be here, and if you get into trouble, just say _Troglodyte_.” Mike nodded in affirmation before looking to check the tie-clip microphone’s instruction manual. It looked like it was correctly attached and tuned. He looked back up. “We’ll be on channel six.”

“ _Troglodyte_?” Lucas and Dustin spoke at the same time, equally unenthusiastic.

“Yeah, you know, Troglodyte.”

Will looked at Eleven before looking to Mike. “For normal people that doesn’t come in every day conversation though.”

Mike paused. “Oh… right, okay not Troglodyte. What about _cauldron_?”

“No good, not if my dad asks how the movie was last week.”

The room fell into silence for a moment as each of the kids contemplated what the best option would be. Finally it was Will that spoke up. “Medusa.”

“How on _earth_ is that going to come up in random conversation?” Lucas’ head jerked back incredulously.

“It won’t, that’s why we’ll know it’s a cry for help. If you get into trouble, just start talking about _Clash of the Titans_ , and we’ll know.” Will met the eyes of each of his friends.

Dinner at the Henderson house didn’t start until after seven o’clock that night, which gave Dustin a chance to get home from Mike’s house. The entire bike ride back, his mind was spinning. If this stranger honestly _had_ come to take over Hawkins Lab, then he was dangerous. More dangerous than say Dr. Brenner had been – if he was a Vietnam veteran, and high ranking enough to be able to take over a position like this, then there was no doubt over what he could do. Hell, the Marine Corps were trained in one hundred and one methods of killing without weapons. And certainly Mr. and Mrs. Henderson were not equipped to fight back.

“Damn it.” Dustin sighed under his breath as he turned his bike down his street. He just hoped this didn’t turn to shit – he’d survived a Demogorgon attack, he wasn’t willing to die at the hands of a soldier.

What the hell had he gotten himself into this time?

Putting his bicycle away, Dustin walked into his house; he could smell his Mom’s meatloaf baking in the oven, and despite his worries, his stomach growled hungrily. Well, at least he might die having been well fed first.

“Mom? Dad? I’m home!” He called out as he walked towards the living room from the entry hall.

Before his mother had a chance to answer, Dustin noticed the shift in the house. Where his home was normally warm and light feeling, a safe haven, it now felt claustrophobic, crushing, and something here felt distinctly _predatory._ He paused mid-step, his heart beat immediately increasing.

“We’re in the living room! Come meet our guest!” Laura Henderson called out.

“Coming!” Dustin fought the wavering in his voice.

As Dustin cautiously stepped into the living room, he quickly caught sight of their dinner guest. Sitting in a chair with his back to the boy, the figure of George Percival loomed larger than life. Around Dustin time seemed to slow to a crawl as the man turned his head towards the entry where the boy stood. He slowly stood, raising himself out of the chair, and bowed his head in greeting to the Hendersons’ son, before returning to his attention to the boy’s parents.

As soon as George Percival had turned away from him once more, Dustin left out the breath he had been holding, but not before he saw a flicker of something unnatural in the man’s eyes. He swallowed tightly, and silently prayed that this dinner went down without any trouble, and without ending in a raid by the soldiers positioned at Hawkins Lab.

By 7:30, the Hendersons and their guest were seated at the table. Dustin found himself unlucky enough to be seated directly across from the man. As dinner wore on, and the conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Henderson and their guest carried on, Dustin kept his eyes discreetly on George Percival. As he watched him, his actions, his almost non-existent range of expressions, and his brevity of answers, all started to gnaw at Dustin.

Over the course of an hour and a half George Percival had answered almost all questions with one-word answers, usually a flat _Yes_ , or _No._ As he dragged his hand back through his dark hair to push the fringe of it back off of his forehead, George glanced at Dustin, before his eyes flickered back to Laura. Again, Dustin caught the glimmer of something strange in his eyes, something strange in the way that they caught the light. Something unnatural. But as he watched his mother’s dinner guest, that wasn’t all that Dustin noted about George Percival.

“So, what brings you to Hawkins, Mr. Percival?” Dustin’s father, David, inquired happily. He was glad to have new people coming to the town, even if it had been a bizarre and sometimes _dangerous_ place in the last few years.

Percival’s head turned to the side, and the moment made Dustin jerk just a little in his seat; the man had moved so stiffly, and yet with a sense of fluidity, that there was no denying that he had a military background. That, or he was _definitely_ a robot. He wasn’t sure which was worse if he was being honest about it.

“Work.” The one-word answer slipped from George, bereft of any further explanation, and the hair started to stand up on the back of Dustin’s neck.

“Work? What do you do, George?” Laura’s voice was soft and sweet and Dustin couldn’t help but notice the almost school-girl look on her face as she looked at George Percival.

Was the whole world going insane? Could his parents _really_ not see what was wrong with this picture?

The man nodded his head curtly, and lifted his wine glass. Taking a mouthful of the blood red liquid, his eyes turned and met Dustin’s straight on. He held the eye contact as he swallowed down the wine. Once more the claustrophobic feeling of earlier rebounded on the boy; he felt like an animal trapped by a predator.

George Percival turned his attention back to Laura Henderson, who seemed oblivious to the weight of the moment just passed. “Security.” Again, a single word answer.

Dustin swallowed tightly. As far as he was concerned, that was proof of George Percival’s coming to Hawkins to run Hawkins Lab – it wasn’t like someone that held that rank was going to admit to anything more than _security_.

“How interesting!” David piped up as he shoveled potatoes into his mouth.  “Are you originally from the Midwest, or?”

George slowly turned his head to look at the other man. He watched David for a moment, before giving his longest answer of the night. “I lived not too far away, years ago.” he glance down to the plate in front of him, and Dustin would almost swear he saw a flicker of sadness in the man’s eyes.

But it gnawed at him. Everything that he had witnessed from the stranger that night, only concreted his bizarre nature and menace in Dustin’s mind. He had seen things in George Percival that his parents clearly had not witnessed. Beyond the mention of what he did for a living, Dustin knew that nothing George Percival had said that night would stand out to the others as they listened through the hidden tie-clip microphone. So much of the gravity of George Percival rested entirely on his body language and the way in which energy flowed around him, that Dustin wondered just _how_ he was going to explain the threat that he felt.

When George Percival left the Henderson house that night, just before 9:30, Dustin watched as his parents thanked him for coming and told him to be careful on his way back home. Internally he snorted to himself; he was sure that someone like _General_ Percival didn’t need their well wishes. As the door closed behind the man, and Mr. and Mrs. Henderson moved away, Dustin caught a glimpse of the man walking away. But, he wasn’t headed in the direction of Tanglewood Drive; he was headed straight for _Mirkwood._

There was no way he was going to sleep that night; Dustin kept waiting to feel a heavy shift in the electromagnetic field, or worse, to feel Hawkins Lab suddenly thrumming back to life at full capacity with their experimentation. It had been two years since Eleven’s escape from Dr. Brenner, who knew if they had another test subject by now? Chances were they probably did.

Yet all Dustin heard during the night was the distant crowing of a murder of crows that had been disrupted somewhere in the woods.

He was exhausted come the next morning. Rubbing his eyes, he nearly crashed his bike twice on the way back to Mike’s house. Both times Dustin jolted with a gasp back to reality. The darkness of the storm laden sky only added to his exhaustion, as it tried to trick his body into thinking it was still nighttime.

Throwing his bike to the side, Dustin stumbled in through the side door of the Wheeler house, immediately into the basement. The four other teens were already there. “Guys, did you catch _any_ of it?!”

“He _really_ doesn’t talk much, does he?” Lucas looked up to his friend as Dustin plunked himself down beside him.

“Nope.”

“So what do we really know about him?” Lucas shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the others.

“We know he moved here for work… and that he works in security.” Will responded.

“Yeah, that’s assuming we can believe anything he says.” Lucas sighed as he looked up at Mike. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s hiding something – maybe _a lot_.”

“When he left last night he went the wrong way.” Dustin shook his head, and when he saw the others look at him, he huffed slightly. “Turn right on my street, head back to town – aka back in the direction of Tanglewood Drive – where he’s supposed to be living? Turn left and you head towards Mirkwood, and –“

“Hawkins Lab…”

“Bingo.” Dustin pushed his hat back and ruffled his hair out for a moment before cementing the trucker’s cap back in place. “That was the _most_ uncomfortable I’ve ever been while eating. I shit you not, I thought I was going to die last night.”

“Your Mom really likes him, doesn’t she?” Mike perked up. “She kept trying to get him to talk, and he just never took the bait – except when he mentioned that he lived nearby.”

“ _That’s_ where it was weird – oh screw it – the whole night was weird. But when he mentioned that he used to live nearby it got _strange_. He looked almost guilty – just for a minute before he went all emotionless cyborg again.”

“I told you, _Terminator_.” Lucas rolled his eyes obviously as he looked at the table and leaned back in his chair.

“Lucas, he is _not_ the Terminator.” Mike shot back.

“How do _you_ know? In case you haven’t noticed, Hawkins isn’t exactly Normalsville anymore! You _know_ the Government runs Hawkins Lab in secret – what makes you think they wouldn’t build a robot capable of heading the security _and_ blend in with people? What the hell do you think they _do_ at Area 51?!”

“Area 51?”  Eleven looked up at the two boys in confusion. As far as she was aware, Hawkins Lab was the one and only place like that – she didn’t dare to think that there might be others similar.

“It’s a secret Military base somewhere in Nevada – they keep Aliens there, since a flying saucer crashed in New Mexico in the 40s.”

“Guys, he’s not a Terminator!” Dustin tried again. “But he’s _definitely_ not right, and he’s _definitely_ hiding something. You didn’t see him like I did.”

The two boys looked at each other before looking back at Dustin.

“I saw it _twice_ – his eyes would move quickly and as they did they’d _flash_. They’d go blue!”

“Like the colour would change in the light?”

“No, like his entire eye would go blue.”

Will’s breath hitched in his throat.

“I don’t get it.” Mike’s brows furrowed together and he looked at El for help.

The girl kept her eyes down, brows furrowed as she concentrated on what was just said.

“Okay, you know how a dog’s eyes reflect light? They look yellow or green in the iris.”

“Right…”

“Well George Percival’s did that too, but it was almost his entire eye – the iris and part of the white area, but it was _blue_ – like a deer!” The sight of the blank looks on the faces of Mike and Lucas made Dustin groan. “Am I the _only_ one that listens in biology?! Have you guys _seriously_ never read a National Geographic _in your life_?”

“Well yeah, but…”

“I’m _telling_ you that his eyes reflected the light like a deer’s do when they aren’t looking at you – humans don’t _have_ the kind of tissue that does that!”

“Not human…” El breathed softly, the fear evident in her voice as she forced herself to remain calm. Without looking, Will reached out and grabbed her hand; squeezing tightly.

“All I know is that humans aren’t _supposed_ to have that kind of tissue. I can’t say yes or no that he’s not human – but he’s _probably_ not a Terminator.”

Dustin sat back and fell silent; his mind going over and over again what he witnessed the night before. The way that George Percival’s eyes had flashed against the light was not only abnormal, but deeply unsettling, even if it didn’t strike the others as obviously. From what he had seen, they weren’t _just_ blue; they were mottled and changed in the light, even in the time it took for his eyes to move. Reflective tissue, even if humans _did_ have it, wasn’t supposed to act like that.

But that wasn’t the only thing that bothered him about the man. No, there were things that he’d noticed about George Percival that shocked him in a different way, like a slowly dawning, dreaded, truth. It was evident in his curt manner of speech, and in the way that he carried himself. While it was certainly no neon sign calling out for proof, it _was_ just evident enough for suspicion.

Finally Dustin looked up once more. “There’s something else I gotta tell you.” He glanced at his friends, before his eyes settled on Eleven.

Eleven gazed back, her face a mirror of bemusement. “Dustin? What’s wrong?”

He swallowed tightly. “I don’t think he’s just _any_ man coming to take over Hawkins Lab…”

“What are you saying?” Mike didn’t like where this was heading.

Dustin’s attention moved away from El, and settled onto Mike. He swallowed tightly. “Dr. Brenner wasn’t her father…”

\---

Jonathan honestly didn’t know how to feel about the news he just received. Picking up the phone as it nearly rang itself off the hook, Jonathan had found himself confronted by Cynthia – Lonnie’s trashy and clingy girlfriend in Indianapolis.

Honestly, he expected to be chewed out by the woman for treating her man so badly – not that he really cared what anyone had to say about Lonnie Byers – he’d not been a decent father or husband in years, and no one was going to change his mind on that subject.

However, that was not what happened.

 _Apparently_ Lonnie never made it back to Indianapolis earlier in the week. Jonathan was at a complete loss of what to say – he was more than well aware that Lonnie had left Hawkins on Wednesday evening – he’d tossed the drunkard out of the house himself before returning to his mother’s side.

He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead with his free hand as he listened to Cynthia rattle on in a mixture of worry and anger as she knacked at her gum; each wet _click_ of the gum releasing her teeth grated at his already tired and worn nerves. If he wasn’t such a decent guy, he’d have hung up on her already. Honestly.  “Cynthia, calm down. I’m sure Lonnie’s fine.” _‘he’s probably just unconscious in a bar somewhere, it_  is  _Saturday_ _…’_ he thought to himself, but knew better than to voice the thought – in the off chance the comment made its way back to Lonnie himself. They didn’t need him coming around again.

“I don’t know what to tell you Cynthia – if you’re that worried call the police!”

“Oh yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?! You know he’s got warrants!”

Jonathan paused and opened his eyes. He just stared, sightless out of the window as he listened to Cynthia berate him _again._ Well, that made a lot of sense, and it likely explained why Lonnie didn’t make it home Wednesday night. He had, after all, torn out of the driveway at breakneck speed that evening. And, if Jonathan knew _anything_ about his father, it was that the anger would have carried him for some distance, if not all the way back to Indianapolis. He was probably pulled over for a speeding ticket, and then dispatch had probably told the officer that Lonnie was wanted on other counts and – well, realistically he was probably sitting in an Indianapolis jail cell until _at least_ Monday morning.

“I _meant_ call them to see if he’s in lock-up. If he is, you’ll know where he is and you can get off my back.” Jonathan lied.

“Well maybe you and your mother killed him and tossed him into the quarry!” Cynthia snapped, and it started to make sense to the elder Byers son why his father and that horrible woman were together. They were equally abusive and alcoholic by the sounds of it.

“Cynthia, I _really_ don’t know where Lonnie is, but I’m sure he’ll stumble home soon enough. I have to go and pick my brother up, I have to go.” Jonathan rolled his eyes and hung up on the woman.

When the line was empty and the dial-tone had returned, Jonathan chewed his lip, before dialing the number for the Hawkins’ Police Station. It rang three times before the receiver was finally picked up by Florence.

“Hawkins Police Department.”

“Florence, hello. Could you put Chief Hopper on the phone?” Lifting his hand, Jonathan bit his thumbnail without realizing it.

“Jonathan Byers? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Is everything alright?”

“I think so, but if you wouldn’t mind putting me through to Hop –“

“Say no more.” With a click the line seemed to go dead for a moment, and Jonathan briefly wondered if the woman had actually disconnected the phone call entirely.

“Jonathan?” Jim Hopper’s deep voice cut the silence and redirected Jonathan’s thoughts immediately. “Is your Mom alright?”

“Yeah, Mom’s fine – so is Will.” He answered before the man could voice his next worry.

“Jonathan I don’t have a lot of time right now, what can I do?”

“Lonnie never made it home Wednesday night.”

The answering silence stretched on for a moment before the chief cleared his throat. “I thought Lonnie was out of your lives? Are you saying he’s been staying with you and then left again?”

“No, god no. No he came to the house on Wednesday, demanding to see Will – he was drunk and belligerent – not that that’s not common knowledge.” He sighed softly. All of Hawkins had witnessed the fallout of his parents’ marriage when it finally ended. It’s why the residents already looked at the Byers with pity _before_ Will disappeared two years ago.

“Anyway Mom told him to get lost and he wouldn’t leave so I threw him out of the house and he took off. We just assumed he went back to Indianapolis… but his girlfriend just called to say he never made it home.”

“Wait, so Lonnie’s missing?” Jonathan could almost _hear_ the chief’s brows knitting as he shifted his weight, leaning against the wall of the police station.

“She said he’s got warrants out for him, so I figure he’s probably in a jail cell somewhere. Could you maybe call the Indianapolis Police Department and confirm it though? I don’t want Mom to have to worry about _another_ missing persons case.”

“Yeah, course. I’ll check shortly, you just hang tight Jonathan.”

“Thanks Hop.”

When Hopper called back, it wasn’t what Jonathan was expecting to hear.

“Bad news, kid. Indianapolis has no record of booking a Lonnie Byers, or anyone of similar name, in the last two weeks. I don’t know what to tell you, but this _is_ Lonnie we’re talking about… is there a chance he’s just off on a bender somewhere?”

“Yeah, probably…” despite the emotional and physical abuse that had created a wall between Lonnie and the rest of the Byers family, there was a small part of Jonathan that worried about his father – not that he _wanted_ to. The worry mostly extended from his love for his mother; knowing that no matter what Lonnie had done to them, that he _had_ been her husband once, and knowing that part of her would always worry about him. If not from the tiny little piece of her that might still be a semblance of love, than from the fear that seeped in and gripped her when she didn’t know where he was – not knowing made it easier for Lonnie to once again show up at the house and demand his paternal rights.

“Thanks Hop…” Jonathan swallowed tightly. This was not something he was looking forward to telling his mother about.

“You’re welcome, Jonathan. Try not to worry about anything, just take care of your mom and your brother.”

“I will. Bye, Hop.”

“See you later, Kid.”

The line went dead as Chief Hopper ended the phone call.

This was not going to end well. He could just _feel_ it.

\---

“I don’t understand – what are you saying?” Mike shook his head adamantly against the implied meaning.

“Mike… I’m telling you. George Percival speaks in mostly one-word answers! You can’t honestly tell us that that doesn’t remind you of El!”

“No, but El does it because she didn’t have anyone to talk to in Hawkins Lab!”

“Mike…” El put her hand onto his shoulder to calm him back down. “Its alright.”

Mike swallowed tightly. “What else?”

“What?”

“What _else_ made you think it?”

Dustin stared at his friend for a moment before looking at Eleven herself. After a moment he turned back to Mike. “They look similar. George has the same shade of hair that El has, and he kinda has similar bone structure.”

Mike glanced sidelong to the young woman at his side; he studied her for a moment, and even _if_ he could see a vague resemblance between her and the creep, he refused to admit to it.

“And… honestly he looked sad for a moment when he mentioned living nearby before… he’s obviously hiding his past.”

“That doesn’t _mean_ he’s El’s father.”

“No, but it would make sense.”

“How?!”

“You just don’t want to face the possibility that El’s father is _back_ in Hawkins!”

“Of course I don’t! He allowed her to be experimented on and abused, and what if he wants to pick up where Brenner left off!?”

“Mike, we’re not going to let that happen.” Lucas emphasized clearly. “We’d have never gotten this far without El – she’s our best friend, and she helped to save Will from the Upside Down! Friends stick together, man. Nothing and _nobody_ is going to take El away from us.”

“Friends stick together, and friends don’t lie.” El nodded her head, and put her arms around Mike, pulling him close and hugging him tightly.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Mike returned her tight hug; gripping her as firmly as he could without hurting her. He didn’t want to lose her again. “Promise…”

“Promise.” Pulling back from the hug, El pressed her forehead to Mike’s for a moment, and stayed still.

Mike felt the panic attack ease off before it could strike fully. Relaxing, he sighed and pulled away from El, nodding his head as he did. “We need to find out who George Percival _really_ is.”

\---

Chief Hopper’s Chevrolet K5 Blazer passed the kids as they headed towards the library. He didn’t think much of it, slowing just enough to put his window down and nod his head to them with a slight wave. He must have startled them, however, as the moment they saw him, their bikes wavered just a little bit.

Hopper didn’t put much stock into it; not that he had the time to worry about why the group was suddenly wary of him. As long as they didn’t accidentally blow up a building or something of that nature, he honestly didn’t care. He had other things on his mind.

He’d left Powell and Callahan in charge for the next few hours. Whether he’d admit it or not, Jonathan’s call about his father not coming home days earlier, had gotten under his skin. No matter what he thought of Lonnie, and the utter shit he’d pulled in his past, there was something that felt different about this time. In all honesty he hoped that Lonnie was just on another bender. That didn’t feel like the answer though, and he couldn’t deny that something was amiss with the situation.

Leaning forward over the steering wheel, Hopper craned his neck to look up at the sky through the windshield. It was still black and threatening. Ten days. For ten days the storm had hung over Hawkins, and though it had on occasion unleashed the rumbling of thunder and the occasional destructive bolt of lightning – the rain had never come. The week before the clouds had come, Hawkins had had terrible lightning storm. While it had thankfully missed all the people and the important elements of the town such as their power and phone lights, it had struck several radio towers. The bolts had also struck the ground in several lesser populated area of town. Honestly it had been a bad summer, weather wise.  As he looked up at the strange clouds, Hopper noticed the flashing of lighting up in the cloud layer; flashing and illuminating the clouds themselves. He didn’t like it.

He was going to drive to Indianapolis. He would take the main route on the way there, and if he found nothing, he would return via the side roads, in the off chance that that was Lonnie’s path that passed Wednesday. He kept his eye out for a wrecked Oldsmobile 442; in the off chance that Lonnie had gone off the road and crashed.

As the chief drove out of Hawkins, the oppressive feeling that seemed to linger in the town slowly eased away. By the time he passed the _Now Leaving Hawkins_ sign, he felt as though he could breathe for the first time in almost two weeks. No more than half a mile passed the sign and the very edge of Hawkins, the sky opened up. The storm clouds dissipated and gave way to a bright blue sky. Hopper didn’t like it, and glancing into his side mirror, he saw what almost looked like a line in the sky that matched the town line. There was a nagging sense that the storm clouds were _only_ over Hawkins: blanketing it like some barrier.

He really hoped it was _just_ a weather phenomenon, and nothing more.

It was an hour’s drive in each direction, not including the multiple bars that Hopper stopped in to look for Lonnie.

It was as he feared. There was no trace of Lonnie Byers between Hawkins and Indianapolis.

\---

The Hawkins Library was the best place for the group to start their research on George Percival, but it was much harder than first assumed. For one thing, it wasn’t until they were several years deep into newspaper archives that they even paused to think about the obvious fact that _‘George Percival_ ’ was probably an alias.

If he was here to run Hawkins Lab like they suspected, then he was military _or_ at the very least, a Department of Energy agent – and either history made sure that he was not foolish enough to use his birth name here in town. Of course he’d have a list of aliases.

“Shit!” Lucas sighed as he plunked down at the large table the group was congregated at. Behind him the librarian shushed him, but he didn’t seem to notice at all. Perhaps he just didn’t care.

“Where would we even _start_?” Will sighed and leaned down, touching his forehead to the table top.

“There’s no way of even guessing at his name… so all we can do is try variations of the one we do know.”

“Yeah, but that’s a long shot, Mike.” Lucas shook his head.

“I know, but what else do we have?”

“I’m going to try something.” Dustin got up from the table and disappeared into the shelves without explaining himself. The others watched him go for a moment, before shrugging it off and turning back to the information they had in hand.

Mike picked up his pencil and put it to the yellow legal pad of paper he had beside him. “Okay, we know George Percival… so what variations can we come up with? I’ve already got _Percival George._ ”

“George Percy, Percy George…” Lucas sighed. “It’s really not a lot.”

“Gregory Pavel.” Will spoke up, lifting his head up off the table and resting his jaw on his fist as he looked at them. The puzzled looks on Mike and Lucas’ faces led him to elaborate. “It’s an anagram… well, and the letters changed a bit to make a real name.”

“Will that’s brilliant!” Mike scrambled to write down the name, just as Dustin came back with an arm full of year books.

“What are those?” El’s brows furrowed as she looked at the stack that Dustin laid onto the table with a slight _whumph!_

“Year books from Notre Dame, Indiana University, Ball State, Indiana State University, University of Indianapolis, and a couple of others. I’ve got them from ’71 to ’73, which should cover our bases.”

“Why?” El spoke up, wondering how the books would help them find a man that possibly did not exist.

“We’re only _assuming_ he was in Vietnam, right? Well according to Chief Hopper, El’s mom was a college student in the MKUltra experiments, that didn’t realize she was pregnant at the time. I figure if we go through the year books of the biggest schools, we _should_ be able to find El’s mom, and if we find George Percival in the same book, then we should have his real name.”

“Dustin, that’s brilliant!” Mike’s eyes lit up.

“There’s got to be _twenty-one_ books here, Dustin. It’ll take _hours_ to go through them all.”

“Good things there’s five of us, huh?”

“I’ve got her!” Will exclaimed two hours later, over a hundred pages into the University of Indianapolis 1972 yearbook.

Mike rubbed his eyes as he looked up from the pages of the open yearbook in front of him. The others followed suit as they turned their attention to the Byers boy.

“Here she is, Theresa “Terry” Ives.” Will turned the book to face the others, and tapped the page just above the woman’s printed photo.

El studied the photo for a moment, but did not react to it; she’d never known Terry as her mother, and although she _knew_ what a mother was, it didn’t make any difference to her. It was like looking at any other photograph. “Pretty.”

“Yeah, like you…” Mike smiled slightly, but the red blush that rushed into his cheeks quickly took over. El glanced at him, and smiled gently before leaning against his shoulder.

Dustin and Lucas dug through the pile of books and found the 1971 and 1973 yearbooks for the same university. Now that they knew what school they were looking through, it would hopefully make it easier to locate “George Percival” in.

They tore through the three books several times, but no matter how carefully they poured, they found no traces of the man in question. If he’d gone to the same school, then he wasn’t in the yearbook. Though, perhaps it wasn’t entirely shocking, as they each contained a section titled _Former Members of_ and the year which the book was printed for - aka the section _without_ photographs of the students.

They did however discover something they were _not_ expecting in the 1972 yearbook. Scott Clarke, graduated class of 1972 from Indianapolis. Otherwise known as Mr. Clarke, the team’s middle school science teacher – the one who had described how to build a sensory deprivation tank _for fun._

The phone kept ringing on the other end. Dustin chewed his lip as he waited.

“Hello—“ Mr. Clarke’s voice barely broke through before Dustin responded.

“Mr. Clarke!”

“Dustin?” the man’s confusion was palpable. “Can I help you?”

“Uh… this is going to be a weird question.”

“…I doubt it’s worse than the sensory deprivation tank, Dustin.” Mr. Clarke chuckled – no matter how strange the questions that his students had for him, he was happy that they wanted to learn, and that they trusted him enough to come to him.

“That… remains to be seen. You were class of ’72 at University of Indianapolis, right?”

The silence was extended, before Mr. Clarke’s concerned voice spoke up again. “Yes… How… how did you…”

“Yearbook.” Dustin blurted out quickly, before he could stop himself.

“Right, well… yes? What’s this about?”

Dustin took a deep breath, “El’s mom… she was in the same year as you – Terry Ives?”

“Terry Ives… Terry Ives… Terry I- Oh! Yes, I remember. Lovely young woman – I didn’t know she was El’s mother though… I was under the impression that she miscarried, and that’s why she left… I’m sorry I don’t know much about Terry – I didn’t really know her very well in school either.”

“We were just wondering if you knew who she was dating at the time? If she had a boyfriend or something?” Dustin hedged carefully, it was after all both a weird question and kind of sensitive information.

“I’m sorry Dustin, I don’t know. She had a few friends but they were all female that I remember. But maybe she had a boyfriend outside of the school. I don’t know.”

“Ask him about the guy!” Lucas hissed from behind Dustin.

“Do you know anyone named George Percival?”

“George Percival? No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. Are you trying to find El’s father?” Mr. Clarke perked up a little.

“We thought it’d be nice to at least _know_ where she came from.” Dustin swallowed tightly and held his breath, hoping that Mr. Clarke believed him.

“Alright, well… I can’t help you with Terry Ives’ boyfriend or anyone named George Percival, but why don’t you check the phone directory to see if you can find anyone by that name – _not_ that I’m suggesting you go and bother anyone you might find.”

“Of course not! Thanks Mr. Clarke.” Hanging up the phone, Dustin turned to the others again. “He doesn’t remember Terry dating anyone at school, but he suggested she might have had someone outside of the university. He also doesn’t know anyone by the name _George Percival_ , so we’re shit out of luck that way. He suggested looking through the phone-book though.”

“Oh _come on_ that’s going to take _weeks_!” Lucas huffed and smacked his thigh as he turned around, exasperated.

“There’s _five_ of us, and I’m pretty sure Percival is a rare last name.” Mike shot back.

“That’s assuming his name _is_ Percival.” Will sighed.

“Guys… come on, have a little faith. We have to do this, for El…”

“Mike’s right, guys. We have to keep El safe – not that she’s not got amazing superpowers on her own.” Dustin half laughed, and El grinned.

“They’re right, Lucas… we need to know in case he _is_ from Hawkins Lab… we need to be careful. We don’t even _know_ if he’s human or not, which means we don’t _really_ know what’s going on with El.” Will sighed as he sat down on the floor.

“All we really know is that he’s weird, we have no history on him, and El is legitimately terrified when he’s around – and that she woke up screaming a week ago.” Dustin joined Will on the floor.

“We have to at least _try._ ” Mike spoke up again.

“Alright, alright. Get the phone-book…” Sighing, Lucas sat down beside Dustin.

No one in Indiana had heard of George Percival. And the operators in the surrounding states were equally baffled.

By three in the morning on Sunday August 11th, the kids were forced to face the truth.

George Percival was a man without a past. Without a name.

As long as this was true, then George Percival was a threat to Hawkins.


	4. The Bone Chimes

Jonathan scrubbed at his face. He knew he had only moments after the Ford Pinto pulled into the driveway. He was going to _have_ to tell his mother what Cynthia told him over the phone. And, then, he was going to have to tell her that Chief Hopper had already called the Indianapolis Police Department to check if they had a Lonnie Byers in lock up, and failing that being the answer, that Hop had driven to the city and back, with no trace of the missing man.

He wasn’t looking forward to this; he didn’t _want_ to tell his mother that yet another person in their family (though the marriage had long split up) had gone missing. But Joyce Byers was already home, and this news needed to be shared. When the door opened, he sighed to himself, and slowly looked up at his mother.

Joyce was frazzled; jittery from too much coffee to keep her going through the exhaustion. Each muscle was twinging and twitching, and her posture was completely ruined. Her whole body look defeated, and exhausted. She looked worse than Jonathan expected, and he briefly wondered if Hop had already called her to tell her what had happened with Lonnie. But seeing her eldest son, she smiled, and Jonathan _knew_ that she had no knowledge of what was about to come.

“Mom…” Jonathan raised himself to his feet slowly, and instantly Joyce’s expression changed.

“What’s wrong?” Joyce’s brows furrowed together as she swallowed tightly with the terror that comes with the feeling of impending doom.

Jonathan raised a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly, disrupting his hair and making it stand on end. “Cynthia called earlier…”

“Cynthia –“ her entire way of being in the world changed, and her eyes widened. “Oh god, Lonnie’s not on his way here again, is he?! I can’t face him right now, I’m exhausted and I – I – I just _can’t_ right now!”

“No, Mom…” Jonathan swallowed tightly and held up his hands as if he was trying to calm a terrified animal. On second thought, that was basically what he _was_ doing. “She called to say Lonnie never came home on Wednesday…”

The world seemed to halt around Joyce, and all semblance of sound seemed to vanish into the void as Joyce looked back at her son. Four times in her life she had experienced this reaction to news, the last time it had happened was, quite obviously, Will’s disappearance. She closed her eyes slowly and raised her hand, pushing her dark hair back off of her face as she rubbed her forehead. “What – what do you _mean_ he never came home?”

“Cynthia said the last time she saw Lonnie was when he stormed out to come here on Wednesday afternoon. Mom, between Hawkins and Indianapolis, something must have happened to him.”

“He’s probably on a bender, or, or he’s in a jail cell.” Joyce was starting to tremble, but she could no longer tell if it was from pure exhaustion or some fear of the unknown fate of Lonnie Byers.

“Mom I called Hop… he called the Indianapolis Police to see if they had him in lockup, but… They don’t. Hop even went to the city and back – checked several bars but… there’s no trace of Lonnie.”

Joyce slowly closed her eyes against the news. While she didn’t care about Lonnie in the way that she had years ago, the fact remained that he _was_ once important in her life – after all without him she wouldn’t have Jonathan and Will. While this _was_ strange, this disappearance wasn’t entirely out of Lonnie’s behaviour – he _had_ pulled this trick out of his rolodex of assholery in the past. This was _precisely_ how Joyce Byers had known their marriage was completely forfeit. Lonnie had upped and left and fled in the middle of the night. The chances that he had done the same to Cynthia were fairly high – it wasn’t beyond comprehension at least.

“He’ll show up again – he _always_ does. He’s like a cockroach like that.” Joyce finally processed the news, and looked up her son once again.

Jonathan’s brows had knit together as he watched her. While he was no fan of his father, he also couldn’t set aside the feeling that something about Lonnie’s vanishing was different this time. If he was being completely truthful, something about it felt like Will’s disappearance in 1983. But that wasn’t possible, was it?

Even if it was possible, Hawkins Lab was more tightly sealed now than it had ever been; if it _was_ a possibility that Lonnie Byers had been pulled into the Upside Down, Jonathan knew that he wouldn’t be able to reach the other side from the main gate.

“Mom…”

“Jonathan.” Joyce responded with the same tone. “I refuse to worry about that man any more.”

“Mom I think he might be in real trouble though…”

Joyce sighed in defeat and sank down onto the couch as she looked up at her nineteen-year-old son. “I know… but he’s probably just taken the chance to run out on Cynthia too…”

“I hope so…”

\---

“The only way we’re going to find out _anything_ about George Percival is if we _follow_ him.” Lucas sighed as he looked at his friends. “See where he goes, what he does in town, you know… track him.”

Both Eleven and Will visibly tensed at the eyed of being in such close proximity to the strange man. Will swallowed tightly. “Do we have to? He feels… wrong.”

Eleven watched the boy intently as he spoked. Turning back to the others, she nodded. “It’s not safe.”

“What if he catches us? He’ll drag us into Hawkins Lab and we’ll never be seen again – and then _our_ parents will think we’ve gone missing _too_.” Dustin argued. “I agree with El, it’s not safe.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do? How else are we going to find out who this guy _really_ is?” Lucas huffed.

“There’s no other way.” Mike broke his silence. “But we move at a distance; keep eyes on him from afar. If we run into trouble, we have El.”

The girl’s head immediately turned to Mike; her eyes wide as she fought back tears of fear.

“Mike, _look_ at her. She’s terrified of him!”

“She was terrified of the Demogoron too, but she-“

“ _Mike_ …” El tried again. “It’s _not safe_.”

“What are we going to do?” Lucas sighed, the anger gone. “We _need_ to know what this guy is – if he’s a threat or not to El and our families. I don’t like not knowing.”

El closed her eyes and swallowed tightly. As she focused her attention, tuning out the world around her, she focused on the image of George Percival in her mind. As her concentration deepened, his image grew clearer; her eyes rapidly shifted back and forth behind her closed eyelids. Off to the side of where the group was sitting together, Mike’s walkie-talkie cracked to life briefly – before Eleven suddenly broke from her trance – screaming in pure terror.

“El! El what’s wrong!” Mike grabbed her by the shoulders as she looked around in fear, her eyes searching every corner of the room in quick succession. “EL!” Mike tried again.

“ _HE’S_. COMING!”

“Whose coming?! George Percival?!”

El, quaking in fear, didn’t seem to notice the question as she gripped Mike’s forearms. “He can’t be stopped!”

The four boys looked at each other with fear, as El started sobbing. She pulled away from Mike, and curled into a ball where she was sitting on the floor. Hugging herself she wept, unable to stop.

Will watched her with an expression of anxiety. “We have to _try_ …”

\---

So far, George Percival was deceptively normal. He moved about town running errands – grocery shopping for the most part – and it only further set the kids on edge. He was too normal, and they _knew_ he wasn’t like everyone else – so why did he act like he was?

They kept their distance from him, keeping at least a block or two back from him, using binoculars when needed. Still the effect that he had on reality seemed altered to them. Everyone that he met with looked more than happy to chat with George Percival. What _was_ strange however, is that while each conversation carried on, George Percival’s attention seemed to be just _barely_ clinging to the other person. Instead he visibly looked around, his attention seemingly drawn to the sky overhead.

The storm still hadn’t broken.

They followed at a distance as he returned from the grocery to his little war-time house on Tanglewood Drive. The road was aptly named; positioned on the fringes of Hawkins territory, the street itself was a winding and narrow street just barely cut into the forest. The front lawns were cleared from the trees, but the back yard was forested – trees stood proudly as silent sentinels before the forest deepened. When Mrs. Wallace was alive, #65 Tanglewood Drive was the warm and welcoming house at the end of the dead-end street, positioned on the right-hand side. Now, it was a pale echo of what it had been. Mrs. Wallace’s wind chimes had been replaced by bones – large cow bones and something that looked eerily _human_ in shape – which hung from the porch roof on pieces of frayed rope and cord. They hung there, drying out, and the fine clear song of the Mrs. Wallace’s wind chimes was replaced by the hollow and dreadful sound of the bones as they collided, guided by the frigid wind.   

There, above the house, the storm had a very minimal recession. While the deepened clouds had not parted, a pale glimmer of overcast light shimmered through the blackened storm, bathing the small house in an otherworldly light.

It looked like a horror movie  - an adaptation of a Stephen King novel in real life.

Will was hyperventilating as he and his friends peaked at the house from across Tanglewood Drive. Dustin squeezed his shoulder gently, trying to tell him to stay calm – to tell him that it was alright.

George Percival walked with confidence as he carried the paper bags from the grocery. He ascended the short driveway, and calmly ducked out of the way of a large femur that hung drying as he made his way to the door. The movement sent the bones clicking together once more, which sent a shudder down the kids’ spines.

“We should leave…” El’s voice cut through the emptiness that seemed to lurk over Tanglewood Drive.

Before long, George Percival emerged from the house, and ducking passed the bones remerged into the pale light. This time he was dressed in dark colours, a dark blue shirt, and a black blazer and trousers. A sliver of gold flashed on his belt buckled as he stepped down from the porch, and tugged his jacket straight with a quick snap. His head turned, and he gazed up the empty street – right passed the kids.

Mike’s breath caught in his throat. “The Dark Man…”

They kept their distance as they trailed the man; his appearance in all black set the four boys on edge. While he’d be wearing dark clothing at other times, there was something about the image of George Percival stepping from behind the singing bones, clothed in darkness that set a stone into the pit of their stomachs.

They raced ahead of him, cutting through the back roads of Hawkins, hoping to reach town before the stranger did – hoping to find Hawkins to be a warm and welcoming place compared to the cold and bitter absence of happiness and faith that lingered, wraith-like, around the lone figure of George Percival.

Hawkins, for all that it had thrown at them in the last two years, was a safe haven. It was home, it was familiarity; it was their bunker against the infiltration and infection of the evil that seeped out from Hawkins Lab and the gate to the Upside Down. They regrouped near the diner, hiding just inside the alleyway. Their shelter gave them enough safety to breathe deep and calm their racing hearts.

When the air shifted and changed, and the cool winds came, they knew George Percival had strolled into town. Peeking out from around the red brick walls of the diner and small retail store beside it, they looked out at the SHELL gas station across from them. Dustin leaned out a little further, looking down the street; at the last minute he saw the dark figure of George Percival, walking with confidence but seemingly without real purpose. Hissing to the others and wildly motioning with his hand, Dustin made sure the others stayed back as he quickly drew his head back into the safety of the alleyway.

George Percival paused and turned his head directly towards the alleyway as he walked. As he moved, his eyes caught the dim light of the storming sky, and flared to life. Gone were his dark irises, replaced instead by a wide swath of glowing blue that glimmered like an opal – like a galaxy – trapped within his eyes. Though his pupils were no longer visible, they knew he was looking directly at them. His gaze burned at their nerves as time slowed its flow around him. Their breath caught in their throats, barely able to keep their heart-rates from jumping into overdrive. And suddenly reality snapped back into place as George Percival turned away from the group as he crossed onto the plot of the gas station.

The SHELL sign, always strongly illuminated, immediately flickered. The wiring crackled and popped as the air sparked with static. Finally the electrical interference won out, and the SHELL sign lost a letter. As George Percival walked beneath it, the letters glowed just a little brighter; the red cutting through the blackened sky bearing one word only: _HELL_.

El stood trembling, eyes wide as she watched the sign spring back to life innocently as _SHELL_ the instant that the man stepped off of the gas station property.

“We have to follow him!” Mike hissed and pushed through the group.

“Are you _insane_?!” Lucas hissed back. “Did you not _see_ what just happened – _either_ part of it?! He looked right at us – with eyes like a fucking monster! Like a god looking at us through the eyes of a man! And then the damn SHELL sign stopped working only while he was there – do you _not_ think it reading HELL might be a sign?!”

Mike didn’t get the chance to defend himself, as distant thunder rumbling interrupted him.

Will jolted, eyes widening at the sound of the thunder. Despite the threat of the man in black, he crept out of the alleyway and looked up into the sky. His heart rate increased, thumping wildly in his chest.

At the sound of the thunder, George Percival stopped in his tracks. He turned his attention to the sky, and gazed up at the clouds with an unreadable expression, even as Will Byers entered into his peripheral vision. They seemed to be focused on the same area of cloud activity.

Whatever Will had witnessed, or _thought_ that he saw, he gave no voice and no name to it. Not knowing what else to do, the others continued on with their original mission: trailing George Percival.

He was headed for _Mirkwood_ , and the realization came like a bucket of ice water. They kept their distance from him, not willing to go as far as Hawkins Lab – not _yet_ at least. But then something unexpected happened; George Percival veered off from the path to the gate, and followed an all too familiar route.

He walked to the Byers house. Walking midway up the driveway, George Percival stopped. He stood, watching the presumably empty house; neither of the elder Byers’ cars were present. As the cold wind circled around him, whispering through the trees, George remained immovable. Invisible, frigid, hands combed through his dark hair and fluttered out the hem of his dark coat, but he remained still.

“What’s he doing _here_?!” Will hissed, panicking his friends as they huddled as a herd away from the driveway.

“He looks like he’s investigating your house…” Dustin whispered back.

“He must have figured out who we are.” Lucas huffed as he started to turn his bike away. El’s hand reaching and grabbing the handlebars stopped his movements. Brows furrowing, he looked back at the girl. El nodded her head towards the scene in front of them.

George Percival finally tore himself away, turning away from the Byers’ house. His face remained unseen as he turned and headed toward the well-worn path to Byers Castle, and further beyond. Towards Hawkins Lab.

“I don’t like this… guys this is bad.” Dustin shook his head. “Something’s _really_ wrong with that man…”

\---

Jonathan didn’t feel right about what had happened with his father. While he still did not care for Lonnie Byers, something nagged at him. He _knew_ something was wrong, something that was more than was seen by the naked eye. While he knew that his mother outwardly stated that Lonnie had likely just picked up and left Cynthia without telling her – as he _did_ have a history of such movements – Jonathan wasn’t convinced that Joyce didn’t care. Granted it might not have been born of love, but her reaction was certainly less than he expected it to be.

He didn’t really know what he was looking for, but he knew that something had to be done. Resigned, Jonathan picked up the phone on Monday, August 12th, and called his girlfriend. “I’m sorry to spring this on you, Nance… but…” he paused for a moment.

“Jonathan? What’s wrong?” Nancy Wheeler’s concerned voice came from the other end of the phone line. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah but… Lonnie’s missing.” He sighed. “I know what the town thinks of him, and I mean they’re not wrong… but I think something’s wrong.”

In the Wheeler house Nancy was nodding in understanding – until she suddenly realized that Jonathan couldn’t see her. Squeezing her eyes shut and silently cursing herself, she finally spoke up. “Okay. What do you need?”

“Would you mind meeting me here at the house? It’s the last place I know Lonnie was.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in thirty minutes; we can fan out and cover the ground a bit better.” A beat passed, and Nancy swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Hey, I’m sure he’s fine.” The words felt like a lie on her tongue.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is.” Jonathan responded, and each of them knew the other was lying.

When Nancy arrived, she came with a backpack full of equipment: flashlights, her brother’s (and Lucas’) borrowed walkie-talkies, a tactical knife, a mallet and some snacks. She also brought the nail covered baseball bat, just in case.

She was a sight for sore eyes, and the moment he laid eyes on her, Jonathan Byers relaxed. He gave her a slight smile as she walked up the driveway; her returned smile further eased his worry.

Nancy plunked the bag on the porch, near Jonathan’s feet, before grabbing him by his upper arms and pulling him close. She pressed her lips to his, and kissed him as her arms slid around his neck. Her fingers knotted into his hair as he returned the hard kiss. When they withdrew, they pressed their foreheads together, staying in the warm and silent bubble that existed around only them.

“Thank you.” Jonathan smiled, and quickly pressed a kiss to Nancy’s forehead before stepping back to pick up the bag she had tossed down.

Nancy stopped him, looping her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. She buried her face into his shoulder as his arms returned her firm grip. She held him for a long moment, lingering, before finally answering him. “Always.”

This time as they set off into the woods, they assumed they were only looking for a missing man, or at least a trace of him, rather than a monster that sensed blood through the veil of dimensions like a shark.

Trekking through the Hawkins woods, Jonathan Byers and Nancy Wheeler covered as much of the area around the house as feasible. Yet the area around the Byers property bore no evidence of Lonnie Byers, beyond the angry and deep tire ruts left behind when he tore out of the yard the passed Wednesday. They circled the area for more than hour, before giving in and moving on.

“I’ll meet you at Spruce.” Nancy squeezed her boyfriend’s hand and quickly kissed his cheek.

“Just be careful…” the concern in his voice was moving – it was more than Steve had _ever_ shown her, even under more threatening circumstances.

“Of course. And we’ve got the walkie-talkies in case either of us get into trouble.” Nancy nodded firmly, resolute in her decision to split off from Jonathan as they each took a different route through town. “Or if we find anything.” She quickly amended.

Jonathan nodded his head, “Spruce. I’ll see you in an hour.” He gave her a worried but resolute look.

“An hour.” Nancy echoed, and kissed him on the cheek once more. Gripping the walkie-talkie and her purse, she set off in the opposite direction as Jonathan.

He just hoped nothing happened to her, and that she didn’t find anything too horrible without him.

The hour passed uneventfully, and though they scoured the two main routes through town, neither Jonathan nor Nancy found anything remotely close to evidence of Lonnie Byers. And, as far as Nancy was concerned, it seemed as though the man simply didn’t exist in Hawkins at all, or at any point. He was just a name remembered along with some cautionary tales.

They met again on Spruce, near the camera store.

“Nothing?” Jonathan asked as he walked to her. Nancy shook her head in answer.

“I’m sorry…” her brows furrowed as she looked at the young man worriedly. “Let’s keep trying, there’s another seven or eight miles of road leading out of Hawkins.”

Jonathan bit his lip, brows furrowed in worry and in thought. He nodded his head silently, but his hand found Nancy’s. He slotted their fingers together and held tight.

Nancy smiled softly to herself and leaned her head against his shoulder as they stepped off of the sidewalk and started towards the furthest edge of town.

Nothing. They walked for two hours – it would have been quicker had they not had to stop and search the alleys and empty spaces. By the time they reached North Boulevard, they’d come to the realization that Hopper was definitely right – there was no sign of Lonnie on the road. Giving in, they headed back into the woods, working their way through hoping to find any trace of Lonnie Byers.

As they walked, an empty feeling started to settle over them. Whether it was hopelessness, or something else, neither Jonathan nor Nancy could quite name. Not that it mattered. The trees started to blend together, each looking like the next in the dark stormy weather.

“Where do you think we are?” Nancy looked up at Jonathan after their comfortable, if nervous, silence dragged on a little too long.

Jonathan thought for a moment, contemplating where they had started and how far they had walked. He made a face as he worked it out, and shrugged slightly. “Should be by Vista Lane by now.” He scratched at his face for a moment as he considered. “Yeah that should be about right, it’s only been an hour.”

Nancy nodded her head. She’d met Jonathan in the morning, but it was getting to be middle afternoon now. She just hoped they weren’t out here when night set in. She didn’t trust the darkness in Hawkins any more. “Right.”

Jonathan turned and looked at her. He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders gently. He tugged her close and hugged her tightly. “We’re only a few minutes passed Rowan and Tanglewood.” They moved through the forest together, knowing that they were coming to the very edge. Much longer and they would be out passed the _Now Leaving Hawkins_ sign on the main road, and passing it meant that they had searched everywhere possible that they could on foot.

Ahead of them the trees slowly thinned out, making way for the open space on the other side of Hawkins boarder; the open swath that would carry travelers to Indianapolis. Jonathan nodded his head towards the approaching clearing. “See? Almost out” smiling, he pressed a kiss against Nancy’s hairline near her temple.

Nancy held onto her boyfriend tightly as they headed for the thinning tree line. “Good, I just… I really don’t want to be out here when the sun sets.”

He knew exactly how she felt – nighttime in Hawkins had long become a threatening time. Though that wasn’t to say things never happened in broad daylight. “We won’t be, I promise.”

But as they passed through the trees heading for the opening plain on the other side of Hawkins territory, something strange happened. As the thunder rumbled softly overhead, the tingle of static in the air grew just a little stronger. Fearful of lightning, the two teenagers looked at each other and hurried their pace a little. While they didn’t want to be in the open when the lightning storm hit, neither did they wish to be in the forest of sparse trees – either way they would become a target.

“Lets just get to the main road – if we get there should be able to sprint to Rowan avenue and shelter on the Kings’ veranda. I doubt either of them would mind much.” Nancy pulled away from Jonathan, but only went as far as his side as she gripped his hand firmly.

As the trees gave way for the two, a strange truth revealed itself. They were _not_ on the far edge of Hawkins township, no. Rather, as Jonathan Byers and Nancy Wheeler emerged from the tangle of trees, they found themselves confronted by the back and side of Byers house. The house which was on the complete opposite side of the town.

Jonathan stopped dead in his tracks. A frigid chill seeped down over him and traveled down his spine. It wasn’t _possible_. An hour ago they were on the far side of town – it was a fifteen mile walk, and it had taken them all morning to cover the distance.

Nancy’s brows furrowed together, “Maybe we went in a circle…”

Jonathan shook his head. “That’… can’t be right. Its fifteen miles to Tanglewood and Rowan – if you go straight through town. That means the circle we would have had to walk would have been…” His voice trailed off as he tried to run through the equation in his head.

“Forty seven miles…” Nancy’s voice was barely above a whisper. “That would have been a two day walk…” brows knit in confusion and fright, she looked up at her boyfriend. “What the hell just happened?”

“I… I don’t know. I think something’s wrong with that side of town… so … well both sides of it. Like something or someone is trying to build a barrier around Hawkins, between the gate to the Upside Down, and whatever the hell happened to us.”

“To keep something out?”

“Or to keep us in…”


	5. Monsters of Strange Shapes

It was dark, all light seemed to be absent – did the sun _ever_ rise here? Though he couldn’t plot the passage of time without the sun, Lonnie Byers’ watch seemed to keep running, ticking the days away on the little counter on the face. According to the date, he’d fallen into that _sinkhole_ five days earlier.

Five days, and he’d seen no one. Not a soul. While the fact remained that Lonnie had _not_ paid much attention to the truth of what had happened to his youngest son, he _had_ been told about the Upside Down – in the most basic of terms at least. It had been difficult to explain in, with the order of silence they had promised to Dr. Brenner and Hawkins Lab.

For all that he had been told about the Upside Down – the toxic atmosphere, the perpetual darkness, the danger of the shadow predators, one would have expected Lonnie Byers to have realized where he was the moment the  Oldsmobile 442 crashed onto the road.

He’d started walking on the second day. Alone and without a source of food or water, he was hoping to stumbled upon _anything_ that would support him – preferably a working 7-Eleven if he was being honest.

But the second day stretched into the third, and the third into the fourth, and the fourth thus became the fifth day since his disappearance. Despite constantly moving, searching, hunting… there was _nothing_. Whatever this place was in actually, whatever it held, it was _not_ supportive of life the way that Lonnie Byers knew it.

The only thing working in his favor was the fact that, as far as he knew, nothing was hunting him the way it had hunted Will. He saw no trace of a monster, no shape looming in the darkness.

He wasn’t looking hard enough.

She tracked him for three days, moving silently through the expanse of the primeval forest. Watching him from behind the heavy boughs of gnarled trees, keeping herself out of the minimal light that found its way into the Upside Down. She didn’t like the smell of him; he was foul to her senses in all manner of being. The very thought of him turned her stomach.

She kept pace with him, always hunting and following him, watching to see if he stumbled upon her nest and her mate. She would not suffer him to live should he make it that far. She’d tear him limb from limb and howl as she bathed in his blood if he came too close.

She was glad to see him weakening within the first hours. This atmosphere was her domain, not his. Here she could survive, while he could merely linger until finally his body shut down. The world would be the better for it; she could smell the anger in his blood, and the arrogance radiated off of him like light.

On the fifth day, Lonnie gave in. Exhausted, he sank down onto a fallen log as the volcanic ash wafted around him, falling like snow. He panted, though it only made his lungs burn more fiercely. Begrudgingly he had to hand it to his son for surviving a week on his own in this hellish landscape.

“Good on ya, kid. At least you did one thing right in your life – no thanks to your good-for-nothing mother though.” Lonnie huffed to himself as he glanced around himself.

He didn’t see her.

Her ears perked as she listened to him prattle on, and her anger grew. Without realizing it, she started to lowly growl as she hunkered down in the bushes. So this man was a wife and child abuser. She would not stand for it.

All she had to do was wait for the Upside Down to slowly crush the life out of him, and when the light faded from his eyes she would celebrate.

Men like him were the reason she was here.

Yet she could not suffer him a moment longer.

Emerging from the undergrowth, she straightened and showed her full and intimidating stature.

Hearing the movement that she _wanted_ him to hear, Lonnie spun around in time to see her uncoil herself from the darkness. His eyes widened and his jaw went slack as she revealed herself.

\---

Nothing about George Percival was right, and now the kids has the proof that they needed. Though to what end they would be able to use the information, they had no idea. What _was_ known, was that he was clearly something other than human. Whether he be an augmented human, a cyborg, a beast, or even the Devil himself,  it wasn’t known and truly it didn’t matter at the moment.

What mattered was the fact that _no one_ in Hawkins other than Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Will, and Eleven seemed to notice that anything was amiss with the newcomer. The terrifying part was that even with the strangeness of his character – his tendency to continually survey the scene around him rather than focusing on a conversation directly, his piercing gaze, his brevity of speech at _every_ turn, and his stern expression – the people of Hawkins seemed to adore him. Rather, everyone that had met George Percival, other than Dustin and Jonathan Byers (who himself was quite wary of the man) seemed to have only the best things to say about him – going as far as to say that he was friendly and conversational.

From their first-hand experience, there was nothing conversation _or_ charming about George Percival.

“You… don’t think he’s _The_ Beast, do you?” Will piped up as they lackadaisically rolled through town.  He turned to look at the others.

“What, like the Anti-Christ?” Lucas raised a brow as he looked at his friend.

Will nodded silently.

“Well he apparently _is_ charming…” Mike shrugged his shoulders. “But that means he’s got _666_ on him somewhere.”

“I guess we could find out if we tried…” Dustin shrugged calmly.

Although the morning was warmer than it had been in almost two weeks, the humidity was still strong and the sky was black with the yet unshed rain. To be honest, the kids were starting to worry that it wasn’t _rain_ waiting in those clouds.

“Yeah I don’t plan on getting that close to him.” Lucas shook his head. “The guys a fre-“ he cut himself short as he glanced up and caught sight of the man in question.

The Man In Black, the source of all their grief and worry. The creature which would rend Hawkins in two in one way or another. He who took pleasure in experiments that lead to the rift between worlds. He who inspired fear in those who had their eyes open, and tricked those that saw naught, into feeling love for him.

George Percival was walking down the street, on the opposite side of them.

“What the hell is with this guy, it’s like saying his name summons him.”

“I told you, Anti-Christ-“

“I doubt he’s the Anti-Christ, but maybe he’s –“

“Watch.” El’s voice broke the conversation as she lifted her arm and pointed towards George Percival.

With their brows furrowing, the group slowly turned their heads to watch where El was pointing.

George Percival was walking passed the record store. _Vinyl Dream_ had only opened its doors for the day an hour earlier, and because it was the middle of the week, the store was still empty of shoppers. The owner, Brian Nelson, was standing behind his counter as he checked the cash register and wiped down the display case. He was just a coloured blur visible through the large glass window at the front of the shop. He’d not even put a record on inside the store yet.

As George Percival drew up upon the store, his rigid posture softened. Lifting his hands, he snapped his fingers sharply.

Three things happened instantaneously after he snapped his fingers.

One. A rumble went through the ground, strong enough that the paved street _should_ have cracked and the fissure should have opened up.

Two. An electrical pulse thrummed through powerlines overhead, coming from between where George’s feet were on the sidewalk, and the glass window of the record shop beside him. It crackled and hummed with a low frequency.

Three. Thin Lizzy’s _The Boys Are Back In Town_ began to play; originating from the record player inside _Vinyl Dream_ , and travelling upon the powerlines, it was amplified. The song filled the air. Inside the store, Brian looked up in shock, trying to figure out just _what_ had happened.

Mike’s jaw dropped open as he watched the scene unfold.

What was worse was that the very second the music started to play, George Percival smirked – a smug look of happiness on his face as he glanced at the kids sitting on their bikes. With the beat of the song crackling in the air, the man’s stride changed, picking up the beat as though it was part of him, George Percival swaggered off down the street.

The song followed him, shifting to each new set of powerlines that he passed under, and abandoning the one he had just left.

“What the FUCK was that!?” Dustin nearly fell of his bike in shock.

It had all happened in under thirty seconds.

“Follow him!” Mike finally shouted.

\---

Jonathan had told her what happened to he and Nancy the day before, while they were searching the woods for any sign of Lonnie, but Joyce had no explanation for it. With everything that Hawkins had become in the last two years, she tried _very_ hard not to think about the strange things that happened that _did not_ bring harm to those that she loved.

What bothered her more was Jonathan’s antsy demeanor since the news came that Lonnie had gone missing. It bothered her because it wasn’t the first time that her ex-husband had created the shift in Jonathan’s behavior like this.

Honestly the father and son had never had a good relationship – the love was already lost between Lonnie and Joyce when Jonathan was old enough to remember anything. She knew some of his first memories were of arguments, mostly all born from Lonnie’s drinking and infidelity. She also knew that many of the memories that Jonathan had from his earliest ages contained the abuse that Lonnie had dealt upon her. But it wasn’t just that; it wasn’t just the bad memories of the failing marriage, or even Lonnie forcing Jonathan to kill a rabbit on his tenth birthday (the poor child had cried for a week afterwards, and Joyce knew then that he would never be like his father). No, what bothered her about this shift in Jonathan was that she recognized it right away.

When Lonnie left them the first time, the time in which he’d run off with some bimbo named Ginger, or Candi (which was _clearly_ not the woman’s real name but rather her stage name in whatever sleazy strip club that Lonnie had dragged her out of), he’d vanished into thin air. Lonnie disappeared without warning, without comment, and without a phone call. He was gone for three months, and during that time Jonathan and Will had been a wreck.

The only reason that Jonathan had stopped caring about his father, was that Lonnie had pulled this move so many times that it was _almost_ comical. He’d vanish with no trace, and pop up a month, three months, six months, a year later.  And the abuse that Lonnie had laid upon Joyce, well, that only concreted Jonathan’s feelings about his father.

So, when Lonnie turned up missing this time, Joyce didn’t think anything of it. They had been in this place before. But, she knew that her sons were always the ones left on the hook, dangling, waiting for Lonnie.

But it wasn’t only Jonathan’s behavior that she recognized upon the disappearance of his father.

She recognized her own long-standing ticks as well.

It brought back memories long forgotten, long locked away.

Maybe if she showed it to her son, he’d understand some of his mother’s conduct.

She knew how hard it was to grow up with a single parent.

It was time to uncover the past.

Joyce squeezed her eyes shut, her hands shaking a little as they held onto the coffee mug in front of her. She was glad Jonathan wasn’t home for this.

In a lesser used portion of the Byers house, there was a room that Joyce had been using as storage for _years._

Here were all of the things that Joyce had been unable to part with, though had not kept in the main living area. Still, they were too good to store in the leaking shed. Here there were things that had been given as wedding gifts to her and Lonnie – the things that _he_ hadn’t wanted when he left. But, this was also where she stored the items from her mother’s estate – not that Elaine Roy had left much behind for her daughter.

Three stacked boxes, each approximately four feet wide, tall, and deep, stood in the corner of the room. The wedding gifts were in the top box – Joyce knew that much. So, picking up the box on the top, she tossed it aside – barely even flinching when she was met with the unmistakable sound of porcelain shattering inside the cardboard. Nothing in there had mattered to her for years, now was not the time to start.

The second and third box had been closed up since shortly before Jonathan’s birth in 1966. Joyce was always saddened by the fact that her son never had the chance to meet his grandmother. Elaine had died in ’66 at the tragically young age of forty-eight. The memory was still painful, but to be honest there had been a strain in their mother-daughter relationship for _years_ before Elaine passed away.

For nineteen years these boxes had remained closed; the boxing tape had thusly turned dark and started to crumble away in places – never meant to last for two decades. Joyce chewed on her lip, but she didn’t have the time or the fortitude to worry herself with what she was going to find, long forgotten, inside. She tore at the tape on the top box, and finally rending it useless, she pulled open the slightly musty cardboard flaps.

Joyce Byers had not been the one to pack up the boxes in 1966.

The damp smell of the old cardboard struck her, and almost made her cough as it wafted at her. Laying on top of what looked like brown leather, Joyce found a yellowed note, folded, with her name on the front of it in her mother’s handwriting. Her brows furrowed together as she carefully fished the ancient letter out of the box, and opened it up with shaky hands; the brittle paper rattled. There was only one phrase written on the small notebook page:

_I am so sorry. ~Mom_

Joyce swallowed tightly and looked at the note again; she turned it over and over, but found no further clue. Her eyes darted back to the brown leather in the box, upon which the note had been sitting for almost twenty years. It wasn’t what she was looking for, but for the moment being that didn’t matter. Reaching into the box, Joyce’s fingers closed around the leather, and it all came back to her.

She was four years old, and she was wearing the leather and sheepskin bomber jacket – rather she was swimming in the expanse of fabric. Over her, her father was a hazy figure in her memory, but he was laughing, and it was a sound like no other. His laughter rumbled like thunder, and it was the _best_ sound in the world to her. Four-year-old Joyce lunged out, and the man caught her easily; he lifted her up and cuddled her close as she wore his coat. In a blink of an eye, she was five years old, and the house felt silent and oppressive. She was curled up in the same bomber jacket, lying alone on her bed, and crying silent tears that wouldn’t stop falling. In a breath, she was seven, and her father’s coat laid over her in her bed like a blanket as she curled up, listening to the radio as her eyelids grew heavy. She fell asleep under the warm weight of the leather coat.

Without realizing what she’d done, Joyce brought the old bomber jacket up; pressing her face into the sheepskin collar. Silent tears were falling; she’d not seen her father’s jacket in thirty-six years. She’d almost completely forgotten about it, but it was the last tangible piece of the man that was left. Her father, to whom her mother was not married, Christopher Joyce (of which she was the namesake) had died in the Second World War. She was just barely five years old when her mother broke the news to her. That was the first loss that she suffered, and it had damaged her.

Joyce closed her eyes and hugged the old coat close to her heart for a long moment. But, she tore herself away from it. There were more important things to be discovered. Setting the coat aside, she dug through the rest of the box, but found nothing but the radio that she’d had in her childhood bedroom, and a few other trinkets. It wasn’t in that box. Barely taking time to think, Joyce Byers tore into the third box. It was the only box left, and it _had_ to be there. If not, well…

Shifting through the contents quickly, she almost missed it the first time. The pale background happened to catch her eye as she pushed papers and small desk-related trinkets aside. It had flipped up slightly. Eyes widening, she grabbed it quickly and pulled it free, before settling back on her heels.

In her hand was a framed photo. It was black and white, and had been hand tinted by a skilled hand. She smiled as tears of happiness came to her eyes; she’d not seen her father’s face in _years_.

\---

She was not the tallest woman that he had ever seen, but she held herself like a warrior. Her hair was a dark chestnut, though in the dim light of the Upside Down, it showed as black. Her eyes were a stern and icy blue that pierced through him like a blade. Her nose was sharp, and her jaw tight with displeasure.

Lonnie wondered if her pallor was due to life in the Upside Down, or if she had been this snow-white before.

“You are a _foul_ creature.” She snarled as she stepped forward, raising her jaw and staring down her proud nose at the scruffy and dirty man. “He who treats his family with derision!”

Lonnie’s brows furrowed as he took a step back, but she was on him _again._ She stalked like a mother bear, and though she stood barely more than five feet and five inches she felt like a threat. But, Lonnie being Lonnie, felt that he could take her, easily, if she tried anything.

He failed to notice her slightly tattered flight suit. This woman was a veteran – a pilot. She was trained in combat that he had no concept of, and she had seen things that he couldn’t even begin to imagine – and not just in war. Her flight suit was circa the 1940s – she’d been surviving – nay, thriving – in the Upside Down for at least _forty years_. Yet she appeared to only be in her late twenties.

“I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about lady. Get your panties out of the bunch they’re in.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and her jaw tightened. Her gaze could have burned through him.

“Judging by the sweat and beer stains on that _disgusting_ undershirt of yours, you’ve not seen a woman classy enough to even _wear_ panties in years. I should hardly be surprised that you cannot speak to one without sinking to the most basic degradations!”

“You’ve got a real opinion of yourself, don’t you _missy_?” Lonnie barked back. “Ohhh miss _perfect_ here thinks she’s better than Lonnie Byers!”

Her mouth tightened as she pursed her lips together, lowering her jaw as she glared at him from the tops of her eyes. “So you’re the foul specimen that sired that poor boy.”

Lonnie was caught off guard, he took half a step back as he listened to her. “Excuse me?”

“ _You’re_ Will’s good-for-nothing father. Shame, he deserved better than you – thank goodness his _mother_ came for him.”

“Ah screw you! The kid’s a queer! Got himself lost!”

“Whatever the boy is or isn’t, Will’s too good to be _your_ son. Besides, people don’t just _get lost_ here! They’re dragged in – _you_ should know.”

She was better than him. She was above him in every way that she could see. He was _not_ worth the effort that it would take to slaughter him – no matter what he deserved. No, she would leave him for the _real_ monsters that dwelled here in the darkness.

Soon Lonnie would stumbled upon the lair of something he could not fathom.

That was how he would meet his end and that was exactly what she wanted for him.

“Hey! Hey you!” Lonnie shouted after her, but she refused to answer the man as she moved through the forest on practiced and light feet. This close to the lair, it was best not to make unnecessary noise.

“Hey! I said hey! Who are you?!” Lonnie tromped, speeding up to catch up to the woman.

She turned her head sharply, flashing him with an icy gaze. “Evelyn Elliott – better known as the Flying Banshee of Indianapolis.”

Lonnie paused as she walked away from him. She moved as though the toxic air didn’t burn her lungs – like the darkness didn’t strain her eyes. She moved like a creature born of _this_ world, and not the one that she had come from. “How long ya been here?”

Evelyn was some distance away when she finally decided to humor him. There was no harm in talking to a doomed man. “Since ’44.”

“How the hell have you survived? My ex told me that Will was on the edge of dying when she found him after _a week_.”

“Will was almost lost, yes. But _I_ was found by the Keeper.”

“Wait, the what?” Lonnie jogged to catch up to the woman.

“He’s a denizen of this place that keeps us-“ Evelyn was interrupted before she could finish her statement.  

“ _Who_ keeps you here?”

Marching through the darkened forest, careful to duck down far enough to avoid the lower branches of the trees, she moved more lightly on her feet than Lonnie would have expected. “In these parts they call him Chaskah.”

“Chaskah?” Lonnie only put half the effort into correctly pronouncing the name – or at least _mimicking_ her words.

Evie ignored the repeated name, not that it was spoken with respect anyway. She continued to move through the forest. “Chaskah. The Ancient One.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the man stumbling along behind her.

“The Ancient One… what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

She stared at him. How could this man understand what she just said – wasn’t all the information right in the title they had both just spoken? She sighed with a heavy exhale of exasperation. “What the _fuck_ do you _think_ it means? Chaskah is ancient – from before time began. He’s the King on this side – he’s a _god_.” Turning, Evie set off once more through the trees on light feet.

“There ain’t but _one_ God, missy.” Lonnie growled as he tromped along after her.

“In your world, maybe. But not here.”

\---

They’d tracked him to a warehouse on the edge of town. It had once belonged to a tire manufacturer, but all the machinery and equipment had been moved out _years_ ago. Since then, it had sat empty – all 45,000 square feet of the building.

“Man, what the Hell are we doing?” Lucas hissed as they peaked around the corner of the building.

“He can freakin’ control the _electrical system_ guys! This isn’t a great idea!” Dustin hissed in semi-response.

“Yeah, the only person we know that can do that is _El_!” Lucas shot back. “Whatever you’re thinking, this is bad idea Mike!”

“He might be her father! And he might be trying to destroy our town – our _home_ and worst yet, our _families_!” Mike finally snapped back.

“Mike… dangerous.” El swallowed and looked him straight in the eyes. “Danger I can’t help with.”

The colour drained out of Will’s and Dustin’s faces. Lucas swore under his breath “See?!”

Mike shook his head. “Sometimes you have to face the dragon, to save the princess.”

“Mike, what the fuck does that mean?” Dustin sighed.

“It means we have to find out what George Percival is doing, if we want to keep our families safe! Now, maybe you’re not concerned with what he’s up to in there, but _I am_.” Mike shrugged them off, pushing passed the four of them as he crept around the side of the warehouse.

There was a small swinging window that was open about twenty feet away. Holding his breath, Mike made his way towards it, as the others behind him looked at each other. They couldn’t let him do this alone, and they knew it – that didn’t make them feel any better though.

If El was correct, and she couldn’t help them… then there wasn’t much that could do if they _did_ get into trouble. And that _if_ was a pretty big one.

Peaking in through the open window, they were surprised to find the interior of the warehouse dark, and filled with what looked like junk. Though it was hard to tell with the lack of interior light (which was only exacerbated by the looming storm clouds) it looked as though George Percival had squirreled away anything remotely technological that he could find.

“What do you see?” Lucas hissed as he and Dustin held Mike up high enough to look into the window.

“It… looks like a junkyard…” Mike’s brows furrowed as he leaned a little further into the opening to get a better view.

“Be careful!” El hissed as she looked up the boy leaning in the window. “Where is he?”

“El’s right, where’s the creep?” Lucas shook his head.

“Oh this can’t be good…” Dustin’s voice knotted with concern as he held onto his friend’s leg.

Mike didn’t seem to notice what they were saying; he was more intent on seeing the interior of the warehouse. “I’m going in!” without warning, he started to climb into the open window and shook the others off of him as he pulled himself through.

Dustin and Lucas exchanged wide-eyed looks of horror as Mike dropped down to the floor of the warehouse on the other side of the wall.

Eleven huffed, knowing it was time for her to step up. Pushing the boys out of the way she climbed up to the window and pulled herself inside, dropping down softly next to Mike.

Again the remaining three boys looked at each other in shock, knowing there was nothing left that they could do. They had to remain as a group.

Dustin and Lucas helped Will up and into the window, where he was helped down by Mike and Eleven, before Dustin hopped up and in. He leaned back down and grabbed Lucas’ hand, pulling him up to the window.

The five of them were now inside a dark warehouse, with a man that was not as he seemed. With a man that could control electrical impulses – a man whose eyes were not those of a human.

A man that may or may not have sired El.

George Percival had his back to them, as he stood in a corner near a forest of old radios and lights.

Mike, spotting him, pointed to him and tried to speak to his friends through hand-signals only. They didn’t get it, having no idea what he was trying to say with his chosen set of movements. Sighing to himself, he shook them off and started creeping along toward the corner in which the man was standing.

It was a massive distance, more than advisable. But he was committed now, and Mike would carry through. He _needed_ to know, for El.

Exasperated (and terrified) the others crept after him, knowing that they best bet with facing George Percival was with numbers.

He knew they were coming, he could hear them plain as day. You didn’t get as far in life as he had without knowing exactly what was going on around you at all times. Honestly, he wondered why it took them _this_ long to finally approach him. They’d been following him and trying to investigate him for _days_. Still, he kept shifting through the amassed junk that he was standing with; there was something he needed to find.

“Hey! Hey you!” Mike shouted, though his voice was starting to tremble. He stood his ground, only a few feet behind the strange man that had no history and no real name. Behind the man that hung bones to dry from the roof of his porch.

El quickly took her place at Mike’s side, and Dustin flanked him on the other side. Will and Lucas each took their places, one on the other side of El, and the other beside Dustin. Together they made a line, a barrier, which would keep George Percival in the corner – or so they hoped.

George calming turned to look over his shoulder at the group of young teenagers. “I suggest you leave.” He nodded his head to them as he turned to face them fully.

“Who are you?!” Mike tried again, shouting with anger. It echoed in the massive warehouse.

The man did not answer, instead only staring at the boy intensely. The tension was running high – so strong that it was palpable. It was a crushing weight, like the dread that came with the form of George Percival, like a cloud.

“I said who are you?!” Mike growled. “Are you here to run Hawkins Lab?!”

Again, Percival did not move to answer the boy.

“Did you know Terry Ives?!”

Silence. Judgmental and cold silence.

“Mike, he’s clearly not listening!” Lucas hissed.

“Answer me or she’ll force it out of you!” Mike threatened the man this time, as he nodded his head towards the young woman at his side.

El turned to look at Mike in disbelief, but she turned back to the man. She already knew there wasn’t much she could do to him – something about him plagued her. He was certainly not as he presented himself. Her heart was pounding her chest, the beat strong enough to visibly twitch her chest just a little. The blood roared in her ears, as terror and concentration took a hold of her.

George Percival turned his attention from the dark haired boy in the centre, to the girl directly beside him. He cocked his head, and his eyes briefly flashed blue as they reflected the minimal light that made its way in through the small windows. As he studied the girl, unafraid and emotionless, his eyes met hers.

Their eyes locked together, El stared at George for a moment – heart racing and senses overloading until – it suddenly stopped. A calmness settled over her like a blanket. The fear eradicated, all that was left was curiosity.

Eleven stepped forward from the line of boys, lifting her hand as she reached out towards the man before them.

But no matter how calm Eleven may have become in an instant, the others were still petrified. Mike lunged forward and quickly shoved George Percival back into the pile of junk that was stacked behind him. At the same time Lucas grabbed El’s hand and pulled her back into the herd as they scrambled to position themselves between George and Eleven.

They had to keep her safe.

“I don’t know what the Hell you are, but you have to leave Hawkins!” Dustin shouted as he pushed Eleven back, keeping her behind himself. Their organized line had been abandoned, and was left now as a tight grouping of terrified fourteen year olds.

The dark man looked between them, but his eyes caught El’s again, and once more her gaze softened as she reached out for him.

Mike was having none of it. “Leave her alone! I demand that you leave Hawkins!” he shouted as loudly as he could muster.

George Percival’s attention snapped immediately from El to the boy once more. Eyes burning with anger, he took a step forward; the group shifted and without intention they stepped behind Mike, leaving the boy fully exposed to the wrath of the stranger. The man almost snarled as he stooped down, bringing himself to face-level with the group.

He had had _enough_.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the kids heard nothing for a few seconds. The world slowed down and the ground beneath them rumbled; the walls of the warehouse quaked. They could feel the deep frequencies vibrating their bones; their sternums buzzing with the noise.

It started with the low tones, lower than any human ear could register. And then the midtones became audible, all speaking at once.  A hundred thousand voices melding into one – an army speaking in unison. And still the words were beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. It was as though the Universe itself was speaking.

The old Zenith tube radio in the pile of junk finally crackled to life, carrying on its waves a human voice which matched both the cadence of the deep tones, and the words that George Percival was clearly speaking.

“I. Came. To. _Help_.”

\---

When Jonathan Byers came home after work late on the night of Tuesday August 13th, he found his mother curled up sleeping on the couch. She looked exhausted, and seeing that it had been her day off, he wasn’t surprised that she had taken full advantage of it by napping. What did surprise him however was the fact that it looked like she had something folded up as a pillow that he didn’t recognize. Without moving her or waking her, it was rather hard to tell, but it almost looked like a leather jacket.

He was too tired to worry about it, or to really even think of it. He walked down the hall to his bedroom, stepped inside, and collapsed on his bed. Utterly useless until the next morning.

In the morning, as always, Jonathan made breakfast for himself and his mother (Will was once again staying with his friends – not that it surprised the Byers since it was still summer vacation). The bags under his eyes were still prominent, and the dark circles lingered, but he was thankful that the next shift wasn’t until Thursday. He’d at least be able to catch up on a few hours of sleep – and then maybe he’d try to find his father again. If nothing else, he desperately needed to figure out what was going on with the barrier around town.

As he handed his mother her plate, and sat down with his own mug of coffee he sighed tiredly.

Joyce smiled sympathetically. She was shaking slightly, jittery from the strong brewed coffee rather than exhaustion as she squeezed her son’s shoulder. Last night was the best sleep she’d had in weeks. It was silly, but with the bullshit with Lonnie, discovering her father’s old jacket once again had soothed her nerves. It was a comfort to her – like it had always been when she was a child – before and after the news came home that Christopher Joyce’s F6F Hellcat had been shot down.  

The mother and son picked at their breakfast; an hour spent in relative silence as they both thought about what they needed to say.

Finally Jonathan spoke up. “I didn’t wake you when I came in last night, did I?”

Joyce shook her head “No, no. Not at all.” She smiled brightly, though it was slightly forced. There was a fine line between her happiness and her trepidation.

Jonathan nodded his head. “Mom?”

“Yes?” she looked up at him worriedly.

“Was that… a leather jacket you were sleeping on?”

“Oh.” Joyce blushed a little pink. “You saw that…”

“Yeah… I mean I don’t care, but I’ve never seen Bob – or even Hop – wear it…” his voice trailed off.

Joyce’s eyes widened in shock, and she shook her head quickly. Was this really what her son was thinking about her? “It’s not either of theirs!” she huffed, a little put off as she pushed her hair out of her face. “It was my father’s – I haven’t seen it since I was younger than Will.”

Jonathan’s mood instantly changed, and he perked up. As long as he could remember, Joyce had never mentioned her father. Not once. All he knew was that he’d passed away when she was still very young. “Grandpa Roy?” he shifted his seat to better look at his mother.

“Oh, no.” Joyce clucked her tongue and shook her head. “No, my parents never married – but they loved each other _so much_.” She quickly emphasized, in the chance that Jonathan might suspect that his mother’s birth was… not intended. “My father’s name was Joyce – Christopher Joyce. Mom wanted me to have both of their names.” She smiled and took another mouthful of the now mud-like coffee. Although the flavour disgusted her now that it had cooled, she said nothing about it.

Jonathan kept his eye on his mother, watching her closely.

“My Dad was in the Air Force – he flew an F6F Hellcat. But, he was shot down during a dog fight in ’44.” She shook her head sadly. “I was just a little girl.”

Joyce stayed quiet for a moment, and Jonathan found himself unsure of what to say to his mother. “I-“

Joyce held up her hand to halt him – she didn’t want pity. Still, her voice cracked a bit as she spoke up again. “I just remember him being there one day, kissing me goodnight, and then never seeing him again… My mom had to tell me what happened.”

Jonathan looked down, unable to meet Joyce’s eye. It all made sense – his mother had grown up without a father. Whether Christopher Joyce had  meant to do it or not, he had left his little girl to live without him, and it had affected the way she saw men – whether _she_ knew it or not. Joyce growing up without her father suddenly made her marrying of Lonnie Byers all the more understandable. Not that Jonathan had to like it.

Joyce schooled herself and shook her head “It was a long time ago.” She reached and gripped her son’s bicep with affection. “Come on,” she pushed her chair back and rose to her feet.

His brows furrowed as he looked up at her, confused.

“I have a photo of him.” Joyce explained. “It’s in the living room on the table.” She nodded towards the main living area of the house before padding off on bare feet back to the couch.

Excited and curious to see the grandfather he’d never known, Jonathan quickly followed his mum to the couch, and seated himself beside her. He could see the photo on the table, but the frame was upside down to keep the old photo hidden.

Joyce glanced sidelong at the boy. “My mom put away after he died, but I snuck it into my room so I could say goodnight to him every night.” She laughed, but the tone was self-deprecating and piteous.

“That’s nice.” Jonathan didn’t think it was a bad thing, or an embarrassing thing. He thought it was sweet.

Joyce half-laughed and lifted her hand to wipe away her tears quickly. Leaning forward she picked up the frame and handed it to him.

Jonathan turned the upside down photo over, looking down at the photograph beneath the glass.

Christopher Joyce was handsome. Though the photo was clearly late 1930s or very early 1940s vintage, it was a studio portrait that had been meticulously arranged. His dark hair was nearly combed back from his face as he sat facing the left side of the frame; his face was turned back to the camera and bore a tiny little smirk that set small laughter-lines to framing his mouth. Though he had shaved that morning, the slight shadow of his stubble shaded his rectangular jaw. His eyes were deep-set, and dark in colour, but they were _kind_ , and vibrant –he looked as though he were truly gazing out from his portrait. His cheekbones were high and strong; their hollows blended down into barely visible dimples. His physique seemed to be strong beneath the leather and sheepskin coat. The portrait must have cost a pretty penny the day he sat for it, as the image had been hand tinted, giving his dark hair a tone of rich chocolate brown, his lips and cheeks just the faintest touch of rosey-ness, and his eyes a rich and earthy tone between sea-glass green and the colour of fertile earth.

Jonathan stared at the photo for a long moment; his shoulders tense as he felt as though he was frozen in place on the couch. His heart beat rapidly.

Slowly tearing his eyes away from his grandfather’s photographed visage, he turned his mother.  “Mom…” his voice cracked a little with the tightness of his throat. “This is the man that bought me the lens… This is George Percival…”


	6. Friends And Monsters

“Stop. Following. Me.” Evie turned on her heel and growled back at the drunkard of a man stomping along behind her. Her icy eyes flashed dangerously.

Lonnie snorted indignantly – no _woman_ , no matter if she was the age of his mother, was going to tell him what to do. That’s now how the Byers men worked. At least, it wasn’t how they were _supposed_ to behave – his sons be damned. “You know you’re way around here, and I’m sticking to you.”

“I am going _home_ , to my _mate_. I am not taking you with-“

“Mate? You got a partner down here? Good! Maybe I can talk to him and get some decent feedback on how to get _out_ of this fucking place.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is going to be _incredibly_ hard for you.”

“Why? Oh let me guess, he doesn’t speak English.”

“No, the English is fine. But _she’s_ not going to tell you anything you want to know. She can’t.”

Lonnie paused, blinking for a moment as he processed the information. He grunted. “You’re a lesbian?” the question came with a sharpened barb – the sign of a bigot.

She stared down her sharp nose at him, with a look of haughty fury.

“Well? Not going to answer me, or what?”

“Oh I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that I had to tell you _anything_ about myself.” Evie shot back instantly.

“What the _hell_ is your problem, you psycho bitch?!”

“My _problem_ is people like _you_ who have made life hard for every single one of us since the founding of this nation!”

“Lesbians you mean.”

“WOMEN! I meant **women**! Its pigheaded arrogant pillocks like you that have made every step forward by women a fucking marathon with a hundred pound weight attached to both of their ankles! My problem is that _you_ have been following me, and you have _zero_ respect for me – despite the fact that I’ve survived here for _years_ and that _you_ are going to be dead within a few days!”

“Wait, what? What, the angry lesbian’s going to kill me?” Sneering, Lonnie looked down his nose at the female pilot standing before him.

Evie returned the snide expression, but answered with a cold heart. “No. And if the monsters don’t take you, it won’t matter. The atmosphere here is toxic to humans. It’s comprised of oxygen with high levels of carbon monoxide, overridden with traces of chlorine gas. First it will make you tired, and when you finally close your eyes to sleep, it will choke the life out of you like the cockroach that you are.”

“So why can _you_ live here, and not me?!”

“Because of Chaskah! Because he found me.”

“If he’s so good and powerful, why doesn’t he let you out?”

“ _Let_ me out? He’s not keeping me here. I am capable of leaving, but I’ll give you a tip, Lonnie Byers. Once you’ve been into _this_ world, you never really leave. It stays with you, it _binds_ with you, and you can never shake it.” The weight of her words hung ominously in the air, glittering as the guillotine blade poised to drop. “Fortunately, you will _never_ learn it firsthand.”

Turning on her heel, Evie disappeared; the eternally dark and cold forest seemed to close in around her, enveloping her as though they were linked.

\---

The only sound in the near-crushing silence was the blood rushing in their ears and the wild beating of their hearts. Penny in air – the boys stood frozen in place as the words that George Percival had _spoken_ settled over them. The penny dropped.

El rushed forward, practically throwing herself into the sturdy frame of the _man_ that stood before them. George caught her easily; his arms wrapped around her as El threw hers around his middle. Her eyes closed the moment she had him in her grasp, and she turned her face, pressing her cheek against front of his shirt, feeling the warmth as it radiated off of him. She settled in over his heart/

Her voice was soft, nearly disbelieving when it broke the silence, yet it was heavy with a palpable sense of relief. She spoke only two quiet words.

“You came…”

George kept the young girl enveloped in his embrace as he lifted one hand and carded his fingers back through her dark hair, tenderly smoothing it down. He spoke again, but this time it was the mellowed tone of a living, human, man rather than the voice of Creation. “Of _course_ I came…”

Eleven eased back from him, stepping back so that she could look up into his face. George evenly met her gaze.  She watched in fascination as the slight flickering movements of his irises as they stayed focused on her own, made his eyes glimmer and shine with the strange blue iridescence. The man smiled tenderly – just the barest expression as El lifted her hand and traced an index finger down over the peak of his cheekbone, following the path of his dimple as it led down to his jawline – trying to prove to herself that he _was_ real, and trying to fathom that _this_ was his face.

 He held her other hand carefully within his own.

“What… What the Hell is going on?!” Mike half shouted, finally snapping out of his shock as he saw the way that El held onto the mysterious man. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust _her_ , but he still had no idea who this man was – or even _what_ he was, and now that Eleven clearly seemed to _know_ him…

Mike looked between Dustin and Lucas for backup, or explanation, but found their faces the mirror of his own; wrought with confusion and verging on terror. He swallowed tightly, and turned back to El. “Who is – _how_ do you know him?”

El took another step back from the man, and turned to face her companions. “He’s –“ but the sudden rumbling of the earth beneath the warehouse cut her short.

George Percival’s attention snapped away from the young girl, as he lifted his jaw and gazed towards the distant door. “We have to move _now_.”

“What? No! We’re not going with you!” Mike snapped, but Dustin grabbed him tightly by the arm.

“Mike… El trusts him, and if he came to help – right now I’d rather try listening to him when he says we have to go.”

“Dustin!” Mike tried to wrench his arm free of his friend’s grasp. “Let go of-“

“Dustin’s right. We can worry later – don’t you feel that?”

“Feel what?!” Mike huffed exasperatedly as he looked at the two boys that had closed in on him.

“The heartbeat in the earth…” Will’s voice was trembling, as he stared at the distant door.

Eleven turned and looked up at George; she nodded her head once in affirmation to his unspoken question. Without waiting for the others, she moved in the direction that the man had motioned to with the barest nod of his dark head.

Mike’s mouth went dry, and his blood started to run cold. There was no other choice; he followed after El, only praying that her judgement of George Percival was an accurate one.

But how could it be? She’d be absolutely _terrified_ of him and then suddenly…

He and the others hadn’t lived through _two_ attacks from the Upside Down and the government agents that had run MKUltra just to be killed by some unknown _creature_ that possessed Hawkins like a demonic spirit.

He wasn’t going to be taken down by the Dark Man, not if he had a choice.

Dustin, Lucas, and Will quickly glanced at each other, before jogging off after Will and Eleven. As they fled after their Telekinetic friend, Dustin paused briefly, to glance back at George Percival.

The man had his back to their retreating group, facing instead the doors of the warehouse. He lowered himself slowly until he was crouched upon the concrete floor. Calmly, as though the sudden sense of looming dread had not fallen over the warehouse like a swooping plague, George turned his attention to the concrete floor at his feet. He lowered his hand, and lightly pressed his fingertips against it.

The concrete cracked at his touch, and the fissure spread – racing towards the doors.

Dustin’s eyes widened, and he stumbled as he continued to run. Barely catching himself, he turned and fled after his friends, back towards the window through which they had entered.

\---

Outside the world moved on as normal; to the people of Hawkins the sight of the children accompanied by the man was nothing to worry about; perhaps they weren’t looking close enough.

The boys jogged after El, trying to keep their herd together and keep the girl in sight as she flew along at George Percival’s side. They did not trust the man – could he even be _called_ a man? – despite his claim that he had come to help them – to help Hawkins. How _could_ they believe it? They’d heard so many similar stories from the people that had run MKUltra, and Hawkins Lab through the various other stages, that it was no more than hollow words to them.

And yet… George Percival was clearly unlike any other man that had come to _aid_ Hawkins during the time when the gateway to the Upside Down was open. They had been men - human men. George was something different, and though the thought was terrifying, it was not one that truly surprised the group. Not after everything that had happened following the original disappearance of Will Byers in November of 1983.

What they did know was that George Percival was not what he was projecting himself to be. There was little question about that, and the answer was supported by the staggering _trick_ that the man had shown them with the old Zenith Tube Radio in the warehouse.

No mortal body could _possibly_ contain the oblivion that his voice, his _Universe shaking_ voice, suggested as his core.

So just what _was_ George Percival, if he was not a human man?

The thought sent chills, like ice water, down the spines of Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Will.

Yet the others could only _begin_ to imagine the terror that Will must have been feeling.

He was as pale as paper, and trembling slightly as they kept pace behind George and Eleven. His dark eyes were focused firmly on the stranger, the man that had appeared in Hawkins only a matter of weeks before. Will’s whole body was trembling faintly, though it was masked by the quickened movements to keep up with their… captor?

His heart was racing, nearly beating out of his chest. The blood was rushing and pounding in his ears, it was almost all he could hear.

And yet those words just keep repeating in his mind.

_“I came to help…. I came to help… I. Came. To. Help.”_

The ungodly pitch and character of the voice that had spoken those words had made his ribs _thrum,_ and put pressure into his sternum.

Now outside, Will felt eyes upon him; the burrowing eyes of something watching him just beyond his right shoulder. Too frightened to shift his eyes from George, he could not attempt to discover if it was the attention of his friends, or something else. Though, Will _knew_ the feeling of his friends’ gazes upon him.

Something was watching him, and waiting, waiting for the penny to drop. Waiting for that strange sense of familiarity that nagged at his very soul to finally reveal itself. Waiting for the world to once again make sense, though Will knew in his heart that for himself and the other residents of Hawkins that knew the truth about the Upside Down, that nothing would ever truly make sense again. At least… not in the way that it did for the rest of the world.

Mike jogged forward, taking as long of strides as he possibly could as he tried to close the gap between himself and Eleven. “El!”

When she didn’t respond, he tried again. “EL!”

This time the girl turned to look back at him from over her shoulder, though she didn’t slow her pace.

Mike huffed softly, half exasperated, and half exhausted. “ _Where_ are we going?”

El studied his face for a long moment in silence, before she finally spoke. “Safety.”

Mike stumbled in his tracks, and stopped. He stared at her as she turned away and kept walking with the dark man. He watched as the space between himself and El grew ever wider, before he shook himself free of his reverie and forced himself forward once more. “Safety?”

“Yes.” Her answer was soft spoken, but firm and resolute. She was offering no more information for the time being.

El turned her attention up to the man striding at her side, and swallowed tightly. She knew that she was right – or rather she _felt_ that she was correct. Still though, there was a definite level of terror involved in this situation, and half of it was born from his presence alone. But she trusted him, as much as she could manage, and that was enough to keep her moving. But El also knew that the boys simply _did not_ trust the man, and it was on her shoulders for the most part.

But she hadn’t _known_ who he was until the warehouse. Of course she had been terrified of him, he simply wasn’t _right._ The crushing weight of the wraith-like emptiness that cloaked him, the almost complete lack of feeling and of tact… But now that she understood…

She had to get the boys to trust him, and she had to do it quickly.

El reached out towards George Percival’s hand, slowly, and committing herself to her action, took his hand in hers. She squeezed his palm gently, eliciting audible surprise from the boys as they followed.

The man’s attention did not shift down to her or their joined hands. He remained focused on his task of tracking the storm that was blanketing Hawkins.

It seemed a fraction darker today; Hawkins was a little more devoid of light, as though the storm had grown in density.

But, he returned the gentle squeeze to her fingers as he moved along.

\---

Carrying the paper bags and silently cursing the bag boy for loading them in an unequal manner, and _especially_ for putting the dozen apples on top of a fresh loaf of bread. It was a travesty, truly. He briefly paused in his stride to contemplate just how far he’d fallen to come to the point that he was honestly concerned about a loaf of _bread_ , before sighing and realizing that he too had made an error.

Groaning to himself, Steve awkwardly shifted the two heavy paper bags around in his arms as he attempted to pull his car keys out of the pocket of his jeans. “Way to go, Steve…. Way to go.” He sighed under his breath as he contorted himself to balance both bags in one arm just long enough to fish the keys out.

Movement in the peripheral field of his vision caught his attention. Glancing towards the main street, he spotted a large group of kids walking with a man that he had never seen before. And, while they didn’t look entirely enthused to be with the man, nothing stood out about it. So, rather than pausing to contemplate the situation, he turned back to the task of loading the groceries into the trunk of his car. As he fit the key into the lock and popped the trunk, the realization dawned on him. He slowly looked up at the back window of his car, before turning to look up the street once again.

He was right. It was them. Dustin, Lucas, Will, Mike, El and – someone he _still_ didn’t recognize.

“Son of a bitch!” dropping the grocery bags, Steve took off running after the kids.

The apples rolled out of the bag and scattered through the parking lot.

_No one_ was going to interfere with _his_ children.

\---

Joyce stared at her son for a moment as his words settled over her. As the beat passed, she started laughing softly.

Jonathan’s brows furrowed together as he looked at his mother; half in shock and half wondering if the woman had lost her mind. He couldn’t find _anything_ funny about what he had just told her, and his heart was racing with the newly discovered truth. “What is so funny?”

Joyce paused as she looked at her eldest, and finally seeing the look of honest terror in his eyes, her laughter died in her throat. Her own browns knit together as she focused on his face. “You’re not joking, are you?”

He shook his head violently, the fear all the more evident now in his actions as the truth settled over him like a lead blanket. Honestly, Jonathan _wished_ that he was joking. The truth was so much stranger than he cared to acknowledge. “Of _course_ I’m not joking, Mom!”

“Jonathan,” Joyce leaned forward and focused on the scared teenager’s eyes. “Jonathan, that’s _not possible._ ” She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek gently, as she kept her attention his eyes – the eyes that held the mirror trace of her own mother in them.

“My Dad died when I was five – his F6F Hellcat was shot down. He died during the war.” Joyce found herself overemphasizing the last half of the statement, as though she was trying to convince herself of the truth that she had known since she was just a little girl. She shook her head briefly, and recomposed herself, centering around that truth. “He died when I was a child, Jonathan. And, even if he hadn’t… even if he…” her voice cracked and for a moment she found herself unable to speak as the tears welled up and her throat tightened.

“Mom?” Jonathan swallowed tightly around the lump in his throat.

Joyce shook her head, holding her hand up to stop him, motioning for a moment to collect her thoughts. After that moment she swallowed again, and found her voice. Her tone was strained, but at least she could speak again. “Even _if_ he left my mom and I like… like Lonnie did… Jonathan, my father would be... _easily_ in his seventies by now. There’s no way that he’d look _anything_ like his photo anymore. Maybe this… George Percival… just has a similar face?” She shrugged her shoulders as she looked up at Jonathan once again.

Jonathan shook his head. “Mom I would put money – _my camera_ – on it being the same man. It’s more than just a coincidental similarity.”

“ _Jonathan_.” Joyce tried again. “It’s not possible.”

“Yeah, well… a secret government program leading to a rip between dimensions seemed impossible a few years ago, didn’t it?”

Joyce opened her mouth to argue, but finding no appropriate rebuttal to the statement, remained silent. Submitting to the thread of logic, she merely nodded her head.

“Do you _know_ that Grandpa was shot down in a dogfight?”

Her dark eyes snapped up to his face once more. “Of course I know, I –“

“I mean… aside from what Grandma told you?”

Joyce’s mouth ran dry. She swallowed tightly.

The truth was that she did _not_ know for certain that her father had been shot down in 1944. She had gone her entire life believing it to be true, because it was what her mother had _told_ her.

But, why on earth would her mother have _told_ her something so horrible, if it wasn’t true?

Unless of course the truth of Christopher Joyce’s death had been much worse and Elaine had deliberately spun the tale of him being a war hero in order to honor the man in his daughter’s eyes. Or, perhaps, it had been to cover up some other truth – but what, exactly?

_I’m so sorry._  Joyce’s mind quickly flashed back to the simple note in her mother’s handwriting that she had found the day before placed on top of the folded old leather jacket.

It had never occurred to Joyce that that jacket should not exist – it should have gone down with Christopher Joyce when his F6F Hellcat was shot down.

Maybe he had had a duplicate that he left behind for his daughter…

Joyce forced herself to take the most logical road. Even if this was Hawkins that they were talking about.

It wasn’t even as though her family had been originally _from_ Hawkins – Elaine had moved herself and her daughter here two years after the death of her father. That was when Joyce had last seen the leather jacket. That was the last time that the radio had – no.

“Even _if_ my father was alive, and even _if_ he was somehow still youthful… why would he show up _now_?”

“I don’t know… what I _do_ know is that…” his voice faltered. If George Percival _was_ in fact his grandfather, he wasn’t sure that he should tell his mother what he felt when in the presence of the man.

“Is _what_ , Jonathan?”

“I…”

“Is _what_ , Jonathan?” Joyce repeated, this time a little stronger. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She wasn’t ready to jump into bed with the thought that her father might still be alive after all these years, and walking around Hawkins as his thirty five year old self no less, but she still needed to know what her son was thinking.

“There’s something… weird… about him – about George Percival…”

“You mean besides the fact that you think my dead seventy six year old father might be walking around Hawkins as though he was still in his thirties?” She couldn’t help the little barb of sass that came from her.

“Mom…” Jonathan groaned and rubbed at his tired eyes. “I know, I know how it sounds. But yes, beyond that… There’s something strange about him. Everyone who has met him has nothing but wonderful things to say about him, but when I met him he just…. He seemed cold, and actually threatening. Like he was the absence of all… goodness.”

“But he bought the lens for you?”

“Yeah but I didn’t really feel like I had a choice – like I _had_ to accept it. It kind of felt like owing a life debt to something … evil.”

And that’s what did it for Joyce. She shook her head resolutely.

 “No. Absolutely not. My father was the kindest man on the planet – warm and loving and had the best laugh you’ve ever heard. He was sunshine and goodness, there wasn’t a mean bone in his body. George Percival _can’t_ be my father.”

Jonathan’s eyes dropped to the antique photo of Christopher Joyce once more, and he worried his lip a little.

Twins were one thing – whether true or just a similarity of features on two totally different people. Doppelgangers were another thing. While the photo was old, and some of the details were lost in the soft quality of the photo from the defused light of the studio, there was no questioning it.

In the photo of Christopher, Jonathan could see the exact way in which George Percival’s beard stubble grew, the faint echoes of pale freckles laid out upon his jawline and his neck like mirrored constellations in the heavens. He could see the slight smirk, whether it was intentional or merely the shaping of his mouth, that George Percival wore as his most neutral face – could see the soft lines that had settled into the tender flesh as Percival most often wore a dark frown that verged on a scowl. Could see the shape of the ears, the growth pattern of the dark tresses and, most importantly, the distinct and burning irises that seemed to be looking out from the photo as though the image of Christopher, of George, was just as sentient as the man himself.

There was no doubt in Jonathan’s mind.

George Percival was, somehow, Christopher Joyce. The man that had fathered Joyce. His grandfather.

And he was in Hawkins, forty years after he was meant to be dead.

\---

Panting, Steve caught up with the group of kids. Wedging himself into the crowd, he glanced around, making eye contact with them all, save for El who remained up-front and holding the stranger’s hand. His expression was somewhere between upset and worry, though hidden behind a façade of pseudo-anger. He turned to Dustin. “Who is this guy? Why are you all walking with him – why is El hanging onto him?”

They were focused on keeping up, and barely noticed Steve’s appearance in their midst.

He waited for a few moments, his expression growing more and more impatient. “Who is this guy?! Hello?! Someone want to answer me?”

When no one did, he half-groaned in exasperation. “Jesus Christ I can’t even trust you shitheads not to talk to strangers!” He paused for a moment, as his eyes widened and he quickly counted the kids around him, and came up one short.

One redhead short.

“Where’s Max?! Guys! Where’s Max?!”

“She’s in California… with her dad…” Mike spoke slowly, carefully enunciating to make sure Steve heard him. It was like talking to a very slow, child sometimes – even though Steve had saved them a couple times, _and_ had kept an eye out for them since the year before. He still didn’t get why Dustin maintained such a close bond with Nancy’s ex-boyfriend though.

“Oh, okay… No wait! Didn’t anyone ever tell you little shits not to go with strangers?!”

Lucas turned to Steve, and stared him straight in the eye. “ _Excuse me_? Are you our mother?”

Steve froze in place, his dark eyes widened as he processed the words just snapped at him. “No, but-“

“Exactly! You’re _not_ our mother, so either shut up or keep up!” Lucas cut him short.

Dustin cringed a bit and met Steve’s eye. He shrugged a little. “New adventure time, buddy!”

“Oh  god…” He sighed; his shoulders slumped a bit as he trekked along with the group.

\---

“Wait… why are we headed towards my house?” Will’s step faltered as he realized that George Percival was leading them down a back pathway that lead parallel to the Byers’ driveway.

“Shortcut.” It was the first thing that the man had said since they’d left the warehouse. The voice was like any other man’s – ie completely human and bearing only one tone and not a legion’s worth in one body.

Will was still shaken up – he swallowed tightly.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve put his hand on Will’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “You’re safe with us, and we’ve got Eleven.” He smiled, trying his best to be a comfort, but Will was scarred from two years of fighting the unknown.

George Percival kept moving forward, before realizing that likely the boy was terrified. He sighed softly and turned around, looking down at the young Byers boy. His expression was not tender, though neither was it cruel. It was merely a neutral place.

Steve’s eyes flickered to the man, and he kept an eye on him, though said nothing.

Percival lifted his jaw a little as he looked down at the terrified boy. “You don’t need to be afraid.” Though meant with gentleness, the words came out a little sharper than necessary.

“He’s afraid of _you_ , you … you … Troll!” Mike spat venomously.

Steve’s brows lifted as he watched the Wheeler boy spit at the man. “Whoa hang on, has he taken you hostage?!”

“No, but he’s… creepy.” Lucas supplied lamely.

Will, still trembling slightly, looked up and forced himself to meet George Percival’s eyes. He was expecting them to look as cold and unfeeling as the man’s words had been.

The answering gaze was soft, if not aloof. The strangely coloured hazel eyes seemed to glimmer the softest shades of blue, violet, and copper. While George’s face was devoid of most expression and thusly became a blank slate, it was not one of cruelty like the group had expected from him.

The flickering of the SHELL sign had terrified them, as had the appearance of the man’s house, and had created an image of him in their minds that was possibly not true – at least not _entirely_ true.

“Can one of you dorks please tell me what the _hell_ is going on?” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose as he focused on remaining calm.

Dustin turned to him and shrugged his shoulders. “Long story… “he’s creepy” just about covers it.”

Will stood, staring fixated upon George Percival. As his eyes remained locked with the man’s, his trembling slowly began to cease, and his shoulders relaxed. He seemed to be in a trance state.

Mike caught sight of the change, and immediately jumped on it. “What the hell are you _doing_ to him!? Leave Will alone you bastard!”

“LANGUAGE!” Steve caught himself shouting before he had a chance to think it through. Immediately realizing what he’d said, and how he’d said it, he rolled his eyes and clapped his hand over his face. These kids were going to be the death of him, he was certain of it.

“Mike…” El broke her silence as she reached out and touched the boy on the shoulder.

Mike jerked himself free from her grasp. “No! None of you think it’s _strange_ that he just shows up in town and then the whole world starts to fall apart?! El! You were _terrified_ of him earlier! And now you’re walking and holding his hand!?” Without waiting for her to respond, he rounded on the others. “And you! You’ve been helping me pace him for a week and suddenly you’re all just okay with him?! HE CAN CONTROL THE ELECTRICAL GRID!”

“Wait, what?” Steve immediately looked down at Mike, before glancing at the others for confirmation. Dustin merely shrugged his shoulders and nodded at the implied question.

“It’s not important.” Lucas shrugged.

“It’s not _important_!? How the hell do you know he can-“

“Because he _did it_ earlier!” Mike snapped, before turning on Will and George once more. “I told you to stop doing whatever the hell you’re doing! You’re hypnotizing him!”

George broke his eye contact with Will, and calmly turned his attention to the other boy. But, he never spoke.

Will was breathing more easily after looking into the eyes of the man; his heartrate had returned to a normal pace as he started to relax. Considering everything, he actually felt… pretty good. For the first real time in two years. He felt… alright.

Mike was immediately at Will’s side, grabbing him by the shoulder as though to steady him, though the Byers boy didn’t require the assistance. “Are you alright?”

Will nodded, and even managed a small smile. “I’m fine.”

“Just… like… that?” Lucas’ brows furrowed as he glanced between Mike and Will. Above them, George Percival had turned away once more and started off towards the trailhead.

Will smiled again, and nodded. “Yeah…” He nodded toward the way that George had gone, and El who was following the man closely.

Steve was still blinking in astonishment. The only crime he’d committed was going to get groceries that morning. In an instant he found himself left behind, the pack of kids had split and moved around him. Shocked, he spun around and jogged after them. “Never a dull day in Hawkins…” he sighed to himself before falling into pace with Dustin and Lucas at the back of the pack. Ahead of them Mike had pulled El back, and was quietly arguing with her – though she wasn’t responding. Ahead of them, Will walked near to George Percival.

At the moment Steve felt like the caboose, and more than just physically – he was the last one to know anything of what was happening, but he supposed that was the typical case with the happenings in Hawkins. He seemed to _always_ be the last to know anything important.

As the group passed through the wooded area nearest the Byers’ house, the prickle of electricity in the air seemed to grow and surge, shifting like the heaving of waves in a tropical storm. It ran like rivers of lightning over their skin and crackled in their blood. And yet nothing was ever more than the barest tingle. It was like touching the static that danced in the dust covering the newly turned off TV screen. Like the mild buzz of an impending summer storm – and yet it didn’t seem to be part of the storm itself.

As the trees grew denser, little by little, the static seemed to grow. Suddenly it broke and gave way to the hollow hum that followed in the electricity’s absence. At that moment, George led them out of the trees… firmly on Tanglewood Drive.

El turned to the group, and spoke only one word. “Safety.”

George did not pause as he approached the house which he was inhabiting on the road. The house with the bones hanging, drying, from the roof of the veranda. The house over which there was a slight break in the clouds that allowed an eerie beam of light to wash the house in a pallid, silver-white, glow – a streak that had not changed position since they had spied on the house days before. The light bathed the dark little house in its otherworldly glow.

George merely ducked as he moved around the large femur that hung from a hemp rope. The hanging bones clicked together as they swayed with his movement, ringing out a hollow song in the cold air. Raising a hand, he snapped his fingers, and the tumblers of the lock on the front door audible shifted. The door sprung open, and George stepped inside, assuming that the kids were following him.

Though they were in shock, the boys followed El and George inside the house – despite the unease growing in them. It was too strange to once again be in this house – Mrs. Wallace’s house – especially now that it had become _this_. But… maybe this _was_ safety?

Steve stumbled as he looked around; eyes wide. He turned around several times, before he slowly carded his fingers into his dark fringe, and stared out at Tanglewood Drive in a complete state of disbelief. “We were just… and now we’re…” he breathed softly, not even speaking to himself.

After several moments, Dustin poked his head out of the front door of the house once again. “Steve! Come on!”

“Right!” forcefully brought back to reality, Steve turned around and stepped up onto the porch, just barely missing the large … cow? Bone at the last moment. He swallowed tightly as he glanced at the wood of the porch’s support beams; there were fresh gauge marks in the wood that made up strange patterns that he couldn’t put a name to. They looked like some sort of pictograph, though they were nothing like the Egyptian hieroglyphics that he’d once seen in a text book.

He swallowed tightly, and tried to ignore the ominous feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. “Right…” taking a deep breath, he finally stepped inside the darkened house.


	7. Tanglewood Drive

Stepping into the darkened interior of the house on Tanglewood Drive was like passing through a portal to a land of magic.

The house itself was dark; the walls were painted with rich dark tones like greyed plumbs and seafaring teals, and the once bright hardwood floors and moldings had been stained to achieve a black cherry colouring. But though it was dark, it was airy. The mood inside the house was entirely different from the ominous and omniscient feeling that remained outside of its protective walls, looming like the storm overhead.

The faint smell of ozone tingled in the air as it blended in with the more earthy tones of cinnamon and cloves.

#65 Tanglewood Drive had never been a large house; it was small and secluded on the dead-end street, but it had always felt slightly _too_ small when Mrs. Wallace had lived there. The boys had almost all grown up with the elderly woman watching them while their parents were at work, and before they were old enough to start kindergarten. Dustin was, of course, the exception to this in the core group, as he had moved to Hawkins with his mother during fourth grade. But now that it had long been vacated by the lovely old lady, there was something _different_ about the house – something that could not be explained away as merely the change of décor.

The house felt bigger, and despite the jumble of dark furniture inside, there was something distinctly more _open_ about the layout of the house.

Draped from the ceiling were several strings of simple white Christmas lights; despite the mid-day light outside, they cast a soft but warmly defused glow as they illuminated the front living room. George seemed to be using them in place of the overhead light fixtures. Also hanging from the ceiling was the mirror of the decorations on the porch; small bones hung from tied lines, drying in the warmth of the house. They hung side by side with bunches of plants – spices? – that had been tied for drying before storage and use. There stood a large dark apothecary cabinet against the wall between the living room and the kitchen. Placed on the levels of shelves were glass bottles filled with dried herbs, as well as previously dried bones. A skull took a place of prominence on a lower shelf. They couldn’t determine its origin; the skull was different than anything the kids had seen previously, and it didn’t _seem_ to be a fossil.

The kitchen itself looked over the wooded back yard of the small piece of property; the windows were large and gave an _almost_ uninterrupted 180 degree of the back yard. There were several squat, but long, tables placed under the windows, and each bore a myriad of strange objects – some were electronic in nature - a portable radio, a few large lights, etc - while others were almost primal in that they consisted merely of a bowl and a jug, and supported numerous drying plants. Overhead the strung Christmas lights glimmered alongside voraciously growing green vines, which originated from several hanging pots. The lights seems to be supplying the leaves with the illumination and the warmth that they required to flourish in the sunless interior.

George Percival’s house was like either stepping into an apothecary in the Middle Ages, or was the living, real world, example of a witch’s house.

Mike’s jaw dropped a little as he looked around at the strange objects around him. There were things that seemed ancient, worn and well used, though he couldn’t for the life of him discern their purpose. His mouth ran a little dry as he looked about.

“Holy shit…” Lucas breathed lowly as he slowly turned to look around at the visible portion of the house.

“Yeah, you’re telling me…” Steve scratched his head as he looked around, in awe.

“Guys… guys this is amazing!” Dustin couldn’t help his excitement and enthusiasm. It’s not that he _liked_ the man per say – especially since his mother was _so_ enthused by him during their dinner. But, whatever that Dustin had been expecting inside of Percival’s house, this was _not_ it.

In the corner of the living room a wood stove crackled away happily, casting both heat and a happy red-orange glow from behind its black cast iron face.

Will seemed to relax as he looked around the house, focusing on all the funny and strange little objects that were scattered around, and breathing in the scent of the drying herbs and the alkaline smell of the drying bones. He glanced up as George Percival walked passed him. The man paused for just a moment, and ruffled Will’s hair as he move into the kitchen. There he filled a large ceramic bowl with water, and brought it back into the living room, before he placed it on top of the wood stove, to boil.

“Okay, someone want to tell me _who_ he is?” Steve finally spoke up again as he watched the minor interaction between George and Will.

“His name is George Percival.” Dustin spoke up. The man in question glanced towards him briefly, but carried on moving between the living room where the kids were, and the kitchen.

Steve paused for a long moment. “Right… okay…”  No one responded any further. “…. _And_ …?”

“And he’s new to Hawkins –“

“And he can control the electrical grid-“

“And he’s obviously not human –“

“And he might be El’s real father!”

The flood of answers came faster than Steve expected. He blinked, trying to absorb them all as quickly as possible. “What do you mean he’s not hu- wait, he might be El’s father?” His brows raised as he looked at the girl as she sat primly on the dark settee. Glancing up to the kitchen where he could clearly see George Percival arranging various jars and cups onto an old wooden tray, Steve _could_ see a slight resemblance between Eleven and the man. A lot of it was in her bone structure, and the rich dark brown of her hair; it seemed to match his perfectly.

On the other hand, many people had similar hair colours.

“… Okay.” Steve lifted his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Is anyone going to tell me anything more about him, or do I have to drag it out of you little shits like baby teeth?”

George came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray that was laden with multiple small glass jars full of what appeared to be dried herbs, as well as eleven stoneware mugs.

Dustin’s brows knit a little as he saw the number of mugs. “Oh, no there’s only seven of us?”

Mike smacked Dustin's arm with the back of his hand, and gave the boy a dirty look.

"Ow! What?!" Dustin rounded on his friend as he gripped the smacked portion of his arm.

"He's possibly carrying  _poison_ and you're concerned that there's too many cups?!"

George glanced up as he set the tray onto the low coffee table. Straightening, he simply ignored the argument between the two boys, and instead turned to Steve. “I’ll explain when the rest arrive.”

“The rest?” Will looked up worriedly.

\---

Jonathan had already headed out for the day with Nancy. Will was off with his friends, and Joyce had the day off… but her mind wouldn’t let her rest. Not now, not after the strange shift of circumstances.

Yesterday she had been ecstatic to finally find her father’s photograph, and over the moon to find his leather bomber jacket. But now… now there was something strange in the air. Something unnatural, and something she didn’t honestly want to consider.

Had her mother lied to her? Right up until her untimely death? Had Elaine Roy gone for _decades_ without ever explaining the truth of Christopher Joyce – Joyce’s father? Could it _truly_ be possible that Christopher Joyce was now answering to the name _George Percival,_ and rather than being dead… walking around Hawkins? As youthful as ever?

The notion seemed ridiculous – how on earth could it be possible?

And yet Joyce knew that this was Hawkins, Indiana, that they were talking about. Anything was possible here, that much had been unfortunately driven home over the last few years.

But if it _was_ true, that Christopher and George were in fact the same man, _how_ was it possible? Was he involved in the earliest stages of the program that led to the opening of the gateway between the known universe, and that of the Upside Down? Had he been involved in a project that was the predecessor of MKUltra? Did that explain his unchanging youth?

Most importantly, _why_ had Christopher left his young family in 1944, and why had Elaine felt the _need_ to tell their daughter that her father had been shot down in a dogfight?

She’d started trembling again. It wasn’t from the coffee. The cigarette trembled and dropped its ash as her hands shook slightly. The house was empty, but the silence only added to Joyce Byers’ sense of isolation. Something in her snapped, and she stubbed out the butt of the cigarette, and rose from the table. She tugged the thin cardigan a little more firmly around her shoulders. For August, it was certainly colder than it should be. Casting one quick look out the window to the darkening storm that had yet to break, Joyce half wondered if its appearance had to do with her so-called "father’s" resurrection. She shook off the creeping dread that started to prickle at her skin, and headed to the phone.

Dialing by some blend of habit and muscle memory, she punched in the number for Hawkins Police Department. The other end rang several times, and with each passing trill, her resolve faded.

“Come on Hopper, pick up… pick up…” she exhaled under her breath, just as the line clicked itself open. “Jim?!”

There was a pause on the other end, before Jim Hopper’s voice broke the tense quiet. “Joyce? Christ don’t tell me Jonathan’s gone missing.” There was a thread of worry in his tone, though he kept it well masked by the exasperated – or perhaps it was purely exhaustion? – exhale that rushed out with the last of the sentence.

“What?” Joyce blinked, completely caught off guard. But then the fear set in. “I saw Jonathan an hour ago – what’s happened?!” she grabbed the receiver with both hands to stop herself from shaking. “What’s happened to my boy?!”

Hopper squeezed his eyes slowly shut, as he silently cursed himself for scaring the already clearly frazzled woman. ”Nothing, Joyce. Nothing’s happened.” He sighed again, but this time it was a simple, soft, rush of breath as he opened his eyes. “It just seems to be that when things seem to settle back to normality, and you call me at work, it’s because one of the Byers have gone missing.”

“Oh…” Her heart was still beating wildly in her chest, but at least it as easing down from its terrified rabbit pace.

On second thought she didn’t actually know _how_ to tell him what she was thinking at that moment anyway. So, she swallowed tightly and took the simplest route that she could find.

“Not… a Byers. Unless you count Lonnie – he’s _still_ not shown up?” she worried her lip, recalling the numerous times that she’d had to call Hopper to do with Lonnie. But this wasn’t one of those times.

“No, there’s been no trace of him or his car since he left your place. Between Jonathan and I, we’ve searched… probably most of Indiana.”

Joyce nodded, and though she knew that he couldn’t see her, she doubted that he even needed to at this point. He knew her habits – had for years. Even if things _had_ changed after Lonnie came into the picture.

He paused a beat, before speaking up carefully. “I _could_ ask Jane if -“

“No.” Joyce firmly shook her head. “No, that poor girl’s been through enough. I’m not asking her to try and find _Lonnie_ of all people. I’m sure he’s just off on another bender or… or something.” She sighed and pressed her forehead against the cool wood veneered wall.

“Or something…” Jim echoed back, with the same sense of putting all thought of Lonnie’s imminent rescue to bed. “You said…. _Not a Byers_. Who’s missing?”

“No one.” She paused. “My father… I don’t know.”

“Your father? I thought he died in the war?”

“He did. Or, well.” Joyce lightly banged her head against the wall, annoyed at her own inability to state what was going through her mind. “That’s what my Mom always told me… but Hop, I just… I don’t know. Something’s not right about it, and…and Jonathan…”

“What about Jonathan?” His voice had turned a little harder, the worry present once again.

In place of Lonnie, Jim Hopper had all but taken over as the father figure for both Jonathan and William Byers.

“Yesterday I found my father’s photo – from before the war. I showed Jonathan this morning, since he’d never seen or even really heard about my father before. He’s convinced that this… George Percival… is the same man.”

“George Percival? Who in god’s name is-“

“I don’t know – apparently he’s new to Hawkins. He bought Jonathan a new lens for his Pentax.”

“Yeah, I meant to do that…” Hopper sighed under his breath.

Joyce shook her head, “He didn’t want to take it from this man, but he said he didn’t give him a choice. He just… went ahead and bought it and left it with Jonathan.”

“What makes him think that … that this man is … your father?”

“He said the photo of my Dad is an exact match for George Percival – I mean I thought it could just be a coincidence, similar faces, something of that nature. But… but Jonathan is adamant. And he’s scared. Hop… he's  _terrified_ of this man.  I don’t know what to do, or to say or to…” she sighed heavily and banged her head lightly off of the wall once more.

“Stop it.”

“What?” Joyce straightened upon hearing Jim’s firm command.

“I said stop it. Stop banging your head. I’m _listening,_ you _know_ I am. Just say… whatever you need to say.”

She swallowed tightly. “Will is _terrified_ of George Percival, too, and he won’t tell me why. Jonathan is incredibly uneasy about him – he says that the man fills him with a crushing sense of dread. They’re both certain that there’s something _wrong_ about him, something like… Hawkins Lab _wrong_.”

“And I take it this doesn’t fit with what you know of your father…”

“Hopper…” Joyce spoke with a slightly warning tone. “My father, if he was alive, would be in his middle seventies. George Percival is in his middle thirties.”

“… well, I’d say that’s out of line with your father. What else?”

“My father was a good, kind, man Hopper. Not a mean bone in his body – there’s no reason why _my father_ would be giving off a vibe of danger and anxiety.”

“So… you’re thinking that _something_ might have taken his shape and is just using Christopher Roy as –“

Joyce interrupted him. “Joyce.”

“Pardon me?”

“Christopher Joyce. My parents were never married – but Mom wanted me to have both of their names.”

“Right…” Hopper hummed slightly as he thought. He rubbed his eyes as he leaned against the wall of the Police Station. “So you’re thinking that something might have taken his shape and is using Christopher _Joyce_ as … a disguise?”

“I don’t know what I think at this point, Hop… but I think I need to go and find out if my father really died in a dogfight.”

“What makes you think that was a lie?”

“Because I found a note my mother wrote before she died. All it said was _‘I’m so sorry.’_ … Hop it was placed on top of my father’s bomber jacket.”

There was another pause on Jim’s end, before a gentle, wary, but tired sigh. “Joyce… your mother could have meant… anything… by that.”

“I know, Hop, I know… but I just… I _need_ to figure this out. It’s part of me, you know?”

“I do… Alright, tell you what. I’ll meet you at the library in…” he checked his watch and made a quick calculation. “Thirty minutes. I’ll help you look for your father’s records. Between us we should be able to figure it out, okay?”

Joyce bit her lip in a futile attempt not to smile happily. “Thank you!”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Love you.” Joyce hedged carefully.

“Love you too. See you at the library.”

\---

She greeted him with a hug. Standing up from her place at the table, and leaning up on her toes as he enveloped her in his arms.  As she eased back down onto her heels and stepped back, Joyce pushed a few wayward dark hairs out of her face as she smiled softly. “Thank you.”

“No problem; I had to get out of the station anyway.”

Joyce wasn’t sure if he was trying to be humorous or not, but… she _was_ well aware how Callahan and Powel tended to handle all police work. Of course those two had never ventured into police work in the city, and had truly only handled the smaller-natured crimes of a town the size of Hawkins. Maybe it wasn’t out of the question that they treated it with mild derision.

Hopper reached up and pulled his hat off, before raking his fingers back through his hair. He set the hat onto the table, and focused on Joyce fully.  “Right, what do we have so far?”

“I have his photo.” Joyce reached into her purse, and drew forth the framed studio portrait of Christopher Joyce. Wetting her lips, she handed the frame over to Hop, who took it carefully from her, and looked down at the photographed face.

“Good-looking kid; I can see a lot of you in him.”

Joyce made a small half-laugh of dismissal.

Hopper’s eyes lifted from the photo and returned to her. “No I’m serious. He’s got the same expression you always had in High School; the same knowing look – like you know all the secrets.”

This time Joyce snorted, “please… I haven’t looked anything like _that_ since before I married Lonnie.”

Hopper turned quiet, as he looked back down at the photo. But, he wasn’t seeing the young man that had fathered Joyce. He’d known at the time that Lonnie Byers was the worst possible match for Joyce, but… well, he’d let it happen and hadn’t stopped it.

Joyce watched him intently for a moment, and found herself at a loss for words, trying to find the best place to start with this search. She forced herself to stop half-mouthing words as she shrugged her shoulders and looked up at the man towering over her. “I know his name… that’s it.” Swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, she worried her lip and sighed. “It’s not a lot, I know. I’m sorry.”

Hopper’s brows furrowed together as he closed his eyes, and he lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. It _was_ a starting point, but it that didn’t offer them much. “Okay, do you know where he was from?”

“I…” Joyce frowned as she thought about it. “I _assume_ he was local to where we lived when I was a kid. Rapid City, South Dakota…” Her dark eyes raised to Hopper’s face.

“Okay, so we start with the _Rapid City Journal_ and look for any mention of your father being shot down – an obituary, an article, something. Then we branch out and see if there’s anything in other newspapers like the Times. Failing that, we start looking through Air Force service records to find his service number – whatever we _can_ find.”

Joyce nodded her head resolutely, as she bit her lower lip and kept her eyes down cast.

“Hey… we’re going to figure this out. I promise.” Hopper laid his hand onto her shoulder, and Joyce visibly relaxed. “We’re looking in ’44 or ’45, yeah?”

She nodded again, but stopped herself short. “Yeah.” She answered, verbally this time.

“Okay, let’s get on those micro-fiche, then.”

\---

“I don’t know, Nance… Grandpa Joyce looks _just_ like George Percival…” Jonathan’s shoulders came up around his ears as the two of them walked.

Beside him, Nancy Wheeler kept an eye on him; watching him with worry. But the happening of days previously were still nagging at her. To be frank, it terrified her, and left her feeling out of her depth once again. She swallowed tightly, and forced her arm through the minute space between Jonathan’s arm and his torso. Accomplishing this, she wrapped her arms firmly around his and held onto him tightly.

“What did she say about your father?”

“What?” Jonathan looked up, and realizing the change of the conversation, shook his head.  “Not much – I don’t think she’s particularly concerned… not that I blame her.” Jonathan rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “She thinks he probably ducked out on Cynthia the way he did on us… and it fits his character…”

“But?” Nancy knew her boyfriend well, and could easily sense the weight of the unuttered statement hanging over their heads.

“But…” He sighed. “Something doesn’t feel right about it.”

“No…” Nancy hugged his arm a little tighter and laid her cheek against his shoulder as they walked into town.

“I feel like… we got too close.”

“Too close?” she looked up at his face she kept her head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, like… well think about it.” He swallowed tightly. “First Hopper checks right to Indianapolis, _and_ back, and there’s no trace of Lonnie, right? And then you and I scour the town, and there’s nothing – _except_ when we got near the edge of town. Then everything got … weird, right?”

“Right…” Nancy’s dark brow knit together.

“And then all of a sudden the energy just… shifted… around us, and suddenly we were back in the woods just passed Castle Byers. We somehow found ourselves in a completely different part Hawkins. I think something or _someone_ didn’t want us to go any further. I think we were on the edge of finding whatever happened to Lonnie, and before we could get there, we were reoriented.”

“But who could – El? You think _Eleven_ had something to do with it?”

“I don’t know, but who else _could_ even do that kind of … trick? She’s the only one I can imagine that would be capable of that.”

“But _why_ would El do that?”

“Because she loves Will like she loves all the others, and she loves my Mom – and Hopper’s her adopted father making her practically my step-sister already… We’re _family…_ And, we know she can see things as they are happening. Maybe she saw that Lonnie hit Mom again that night, and she took it upon herself to see that he couldn’t hurt us again?”

“That… I mean…” Nancy fought for words. “It makes _sense_ , but would she even know Lonnie if she saw him?”

“Probably not, but if she was able to see the argument that we were all having, then she’d have heard us call him by name.”

The nagging was growing in the depths of Nancy’s stomach, as she felt the weight of the knowledge pool there like a stone. She loved El like a sister as well, but the girl’s abilities _did_ frighten her on a very basic level. But, her brother was madly devoted to the girl, and had been for the last two years… so Nancy had put aside the worry and the fear.

But they knew that Eleven was powerful. They _knew_ it, for the girl had both opened the breach to the Upside Down originally, and had thus sealed it again and thereby banished the Mind Flayer.

Nancy swallowed tightly and sucked on her bottom lip as she thought. “Maybe we should ask-“

Jonathan interrupted her, without intention, as he too came to a decision at the same moment. “I think we should go back out there.”

Nancy blinked, and pulled back from him, trying to discern _exactly_ what he meant. “To… what, to near Tanglewood?”

“Yeah, to Tanglewood. This time we’ll start outside of town and work our way back in, okay?”

“I mean… yeah I guess? Yes.” Nancy nodded her head resolutely. “Yes of course.”

Still, it was eating away at her. Could El have made Lonnie disappear? More to the point, _would_ she have banished the drunkard of a man that had once called himself father to the Byers boys?

Would she have put that burden on the Byers family?

But, would she have even understood that it created a burden, or did she merely look at it as one would ridding their home of, say, a raccoon?

The only answer that kept coming back to Nancy was, _yes_. Yes, Eleven was perfectly capable of disposing of Lonnie Byers, and was very likely inclined to do _just_ that.

“Alright, let’s stop by my house, and we’ll get supplies, _just in case_.” Nancy nodded resolutely.

\---

“What do you _mean_ there’s no sign of anyone with that name in the Air Force?!” Joyce, frazzled and exhausted by hours of relentless searching for traces of her father, was on the edge. She couldn’t stop herself from snapping at Hopper, despite not meaning to.

“I don’t know what to tell you Joyce, but there’s no one with the name ‘Christopher Joyce’ in any of these files. Nothing, nada – and no, not even similar names, before you ask. No Christian Joyces, no Chrisholms. Not even a ‘Tristian’. Nada.” Jim Hopper tossed the file of papers onto the table as he leaned back in his chair slightly.

“That’s _impossible,_ Hopper. My father existed!” Joyce half shouted, eliciting an angrily hissed ‘shush’ from the librarian on duty.

“Joyce-“ He tried to quieten her before she reacted to the library, but Hopper was a moment too late.

“Oh _shush_ yourself!” she snapped back at the librarian, already shaking again at this point. At least this time it was anger and not fear that was causing the tremors. She turned back to the Chief of Hawkins’ police. “ _How_ can there be no trace of him?! We’ve gone through _every_ newspaper from between January of 1944 and the end of 1945, through all the obituaries, all the military records, through _everything_ and there’s _nothing_ on him! How can that be possible?”

Hand trembling, Joyce automatically reached for her pack of cigarettes – Hopper’s hand moved and laid over hers, stopping her movement. “Calm down, we’ll find him.”

“Chief? Chief come in.” His radio crackled to life on his shoulder, as Powell’s voice called for his attention.

Sighing, Hopper picked up, and answered. “Yeah, I’m here. What is it?”

“Chief, Agnes Pierce’s called – she says that her neighbors have stolen her cat, again.”

Hopper’s face went blank as he stared into the middle distance. “Again?”

“Yeah, but this time she’s threatening the Brookes with a twelve gauge… we need you to come and help calm her down.”

His eyes turned apologetically to Joyce. But, at least she had been able to hear that call for help herself. He swallowed, and exhaled. “Alright, I’ll be there in ten.” He cut off communication before Powell could say anything more, and turned back to Joyce.

“I’m sorry, Hun. I’ve got to go stop Mrs. Pierce from turning the Mr. Brookes into swiss cheese.”

Joyce shook her head and waved him off with her hand. “Its fine, Hop. I’m going to head home anyway; maybe Mom left a clue in the box of my dad’s things that I just haven’t paid attention to.”

“Yeah.” He nodded his head before setting his hat in place once again. But, there was something very strange about the situation to him. No one just … ceased to exit. No one existed without a trace of them. Granted Eleven had been kept from the outside world for most of her life, there was still _one_ lingering thread that traced her back to her origins. He had been able to track the girl that way, and in the end it was finding Terry Ives and her stolen daughter, Jane, that had shown them the way to Will, lost in the Upside Down, and had allowed him to bring Eleven home, and give her as much of a normal life as he could manage.

There was no one on the earth that had zero trace, and the fact that Joyce Byers was standing now in front of him only concreted that fact. She was alive. She had been born, and she had a mother named Elaine Roy. She, of course, had a father. But, perhaps his name had been a lie, and perhaps so had the backstory that Elaine had been told, or had told to her daughter.

Either way, the man had to have existed, and as long as that was true, there would be an answer to be had.

He pulled Joyce in against himself with one arm. As the woman tucked herself into his warm, Hopper pressed a kiss against her forehead, and lingered there for a moment. “We’re going to find him, okay? We’re going to figure this out, together. I promise.”

Joyce squeezed her eyes shut and hugged him a little more tightly around his ribs. She nodded her head, trusting him totally.

The two of them left the library together, exiting down the front stairs. Hopper walked to his K5 Blazer, and opened the door before he paused, watching Joyce as she stood still on the stairs. “Hey… we’re going to figure it out, okay? Even if it takes a bit of prying. We’ll figure it out.” He gave his best reassuring smile.

Joyce returned the smile, and nodded as she kept the thin cardigan pulled tight around her body, held by her crossed arms. The air was cool, and ripe with the moisture of the unfulfilled storm that lingered overhead. It chilled her, and only further accentuated the strange nature of the figurative place she now found herself in. As Hopper slid into the Blazer and closed the door, she lifted her hand and waved him off.

He didn’t like leaving her there like that; it bothered him. Joyce was a strong woman, he knew that. She had the iron will of Boadicea herself – but her nerves were fragile after years of abuse at the hands of her bastard of a – missing – ex-husband, not to mention the United States Government. Despite their tentative relationship – and Hopper knew that it would take time for them to truly be at peace with each other, he was alright with that – Joyce was still in the later stages of mourning over Bob Newby. She had loved him, even if it wasn’t the same love that she felt for Hopper himself. Part of her _had_ loved Bob the Brain, and his loss in such a vicious way had changed her. It had, of course, re-emphasized the fears that she had had from the year before when Will had gone missing – it had been _so easy_ for those creatures – the Demodogs – to take down a full grown man. It would have been so simple for the same thing to have happened to her son, in a place that they could never reach him, where they would never have known whatever happened to William Byers.

It would have been so easy for it to have happened, and the death of Bob Newby had inadvertently opened up the floodgate of reoccurring fear, once the gate had been closed.

Joyce had hidden it well, had worn the grief and fear as a dark mantle for some time, but when the New Year came, she had let it go, releasing it with the coming of the spring.

That being said, he could see the echoes of her fragility in her once again, and he could hardly blame her.

In all her life, Christopher Joyce had been the man she knew and looked up to as her father. Had been the constant in her life, even after he was gone. Had been the one man she really trusted, as she did _not_ trust Lonnie. And now that was taken from her too.

They had to figure out who Christopher Joyce was, for Joyce’s sake. If only to show her that she’d had no reason to ever question that her father had loved her.

He just hoped that the man _had_ died, and hadn’t just woken up one day and decided to leave his wife and daughter behind.

Hopper couldn’t understand how a man could _do_ that.

Agnes Pierce lived off of Woodburn Avenue, which was a short drive from the library. Still, the almost oppressive silence inside the K5 seemed to gnaw at Hopper. He distinctly didn’t like leaving Joyce when she was upset, _especially_ not for something as stupid as a “stolen” cat.

The constant, soft, static of the police radio cut out, leaving the interior of the vehicle in pure silence, which broke through Hopper’s thoughts. His brows furrowed, as he glanced from the road in front of him, and down to CB radio. He flickered his gaze back up to the road, and back to the radio as he fiddled with the knobs, attempting to set it straight again. He nudged the volume up, until it was at the full position, and dialed the squelch back. Still, he found nothing but unending, oppressive, silence. He kept moving his eyes between the radio and the road in front of him. He was getting close to Woodburn, the next right turn would bring him onto it.

The silence remained, and the hair was beginning to stand up on the back of his neck, as a wave of anxiety passed over him, bringing with it the immediate thought: _what now?_

He could almost feel the crackling of the electricity around him.

Flicking the turn signal on as he reached the quiet intersection, Hopper turned onto Woodburn, and the scenery began to melt away in front of him.

Woodburn vanished, and a small house flanked by forest appeared in its place. Hopper slowed the Blazer to a halt; the vehicle rocked back as he put it into Park.

“What the…” he spoke softly, just under his breath as he leaned forward to gaze fully out of the windshield.

He was sitting in the driveway of a small, darkly coloured, house. From the roof of the porch hung multiple bones, apparently drying in the cool air.

Jim Hopper found himself seven miles from Woodburn Avenue, and parked in the short driveway of #65 Tanglewood Drive.

\---

“Okay, I’ve got a hatchet, just in case… you’ve got your camera, right?”

“Yeah.” Jonathan nodded, just wanting to be on their way already.

Nancy paused as she glanced into the bag that she packed, before looking back up at her boyfriend. “Do you think I should borrow Mike’s Super-Comm?”

Jonathan’s brows furrowed together, “what for?”

She shrugged a little, “I mean… if we find something out the woods… we’ll have to get the Police out there... _might_ be able to get Hopper with it?”

“Oh… that’s a good idea.” Jonathan blinked; he hadn’t thought that far ahead. He didn’t know if they would even find anything, so he hadn’t thought about what might happen if they _did_.

Nodding, Nancy got up and headed down to the basement, with Jonathan following behind her. Despite the slight mustiness of the room, it was cozy and offered a reprieve for _all_ when Hawkins became a little _too_ strange. She paused as she scanned the room; spotting the Super-Comm on the second pass. As per usual it was placed in the fort under the desk.

“Got it!” Charging forth, Nancy grabbed the communicator, and looked up at Jonathan, as the slightly bedraggled rucksack hung from her other hand. “Let’s go.”

Jonathan grabbed the canvas rucksack from her, and opened the back door of the Wheeler house, holding it for Nancy. Smiling, she stepped out passed him, and turned to grab the bag back from him as Jonathan stepped out from the house behind her. He froze in place.

Nancy frowned as she looked at the started, blank, expression on Jonathan’s face. “What’s wr-“ she turned to look, and froze.

\---

Hopper couldn’t understand what had happened. Mere moments ago he’d been on Main Street and turning onto Woodburn Avenue. And now he was in the driveway of a house seven miles away, with no understanding how he came to be there. As far as he knew, it was as if the turn onto Woodburn had been the right turn into the driveway. But, that wasn’t possible.

He had a headache, there was too much crap that continually went on in Hawkins. He was a cop – he was used to crime and some strange happenings, but this was getting to be _ridiculous_.

The air was practically crackling with electrical energy. If he strained to block out the other natural sounds of the wooded street, he could hear it sizzling like a greased skillet. He swallowed tightly around the lump in his throat as he looked at the front of the house.

Hopper had been down Tanglewood Drive several days prior, and he had _never_ seen this house. He didn’t understand it.

The hollow song produced by the drying bones dancing in the wind put a weight into his belly, and made the nausea rise in his gullet. This was not a welcoming place, no matter the pale illumination of the distant silvery sun that seemed to bathe this house and only this house in its light.

It felt predatory, as the anxiety thrummed and radiated from the small dark house, casting a shadow much larger than the dwelling itself. Like the house was about to start growling.

It felt like the source of poison leaching into a river; ground-zero for everything wrong with Hawkins in the last month. The more that Hopper glanced up at the foreboding sky, the more he started to wonder why the storm was centered here, and why it went no further than either of the _Now Entering/Now Leaving Hawkins_ signs around the perimeter of the town.

It was almost as though the blackened sky was originating from this small house on Tanglewood Drive.

So, why on earth had Hopper not been able to see the house before now?

Movement caught his eye, and he immediately turned his attention to one of the front windows. It was hard to tell under the blackening shadow of the porch, but he saw it after a moment of scouring.

Mike Wheeler’s face.

“Damn it…” Jim sighed to himself.

If the Wheeler boy was here, than likely so was his daughter Jane, and the rest of their pack. He wasn’t about to leave them alone in a place that writhed with malicious energy.

Inhaling slowly and holding it for a moment, Hopper prepared himself for whatever was coming next. With one hand on the butt of his gun, preparing for a quick draw, Hawkins’ Police Chief stepped slowly up onto the veranda of the menacing house. His eyes flickered briefly to the side as he ducked passed a large cow bone that was hanging, and spotted another near to it. Was that… _human_?

With his attention briefly diverted to the bone, the opening of the front door caught Hopper off-guard.

The hinges creaked as the pallid man opened the door and stepped out from the house. He watched Hopper for the half of a moment before he was noticed. “It _isn’t_ , so you know.” He nodded towards the hanging femur.

Hopper pulled the gun and rounded on George Percival, aiming automatically for the man’s head.

George didn’t react; his gaze remained impersonal as his hand remained lightly on the door handle.

Hopper froze in place, lowering the gun a fraction as he stared at the man standing in front of him. His blood ran cold as the colour drained from his face. “It can’t be…” his voice was barely above a whisper as he stared, unabashedly.

The photograph flashed through his mind’s eye – it was burned into his memory. The father of Joyce Byers. Christopher Joyce. The man that they had been searching for, for hours.

Here he was, standing right before him.

Not a day over thirty five.

\---

Driving along, headed back towards the house, Joyce Byers couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that there was _nothing_ to be found on her father. Despite hours of scouring the archives – how was that _possible?_

Carding her hair back out of her face with one hand, while the other kept a death-grip on the steering wheel of the Ford Pinto, Joyce couldn’t stop her mind from wandering just a little as she drove the familiar path home.

She knew that ‘Christopher Joyce’ was possibly an alias – but why would her father need an alias? Joyce had very vague memories of her maternal great-grandmother, Susan, calling him _‘tokahe’_ under her breath when Joyce was still a small child. But it meant little to Joyce at the time, and now she realized it was likely a derogatory term for the young man that _did not_ marry her grand-daughter. Joyce wished that Susan was still living, to ask what she knew of Christopher Joyce – could she even keep calling him that? Unfortunately Susan Iron Cloud had passed away in 1957 at the age of eighty three.

Joyce had mourned for them – for all of them, for her deceased great-grandfather, great-grandmother, her grandfather, for her grandmother, for her father, and for her mother. She had mourned them and released them from her heart, but now more than ever she felt alone.

Like she had nowhere else to turn.

Everyone that had known Christopher Joyce when she was child, had long passed on.

Mind still circling on thoughts of her mother and her maternal great-grandmother, Joyce barely noticed the sudden shuddering of the Pinto. With a _BANG!_ She was forcefully snapped out of her thoughts as her engine blew. The RPMs spiked before suddenly crashing down, as the Pinto slowed beyond her control. With a frantic glance into her rear-view mirror, Joyce thanked God that no one was behind her as she maneuvered the car over onto the shoulder and threw it into Park.

It was lucky, too, that no one had been behind her. The Pinto was designed with the gas tank in the back of the car, and the sleeve was hidden behind the fold-down license plate. They were known to explode on impact the moment they were rear-ended.

Scrambling, Joyce grabbed her purse and pulled herself out of the broken down car, just as the smoke started pouring out from under the hood. Coughing, she waved the acrid smoke out of her face, as she stepped away from the car, wary of a possible fire.

Several moments passed, and he smoke died down, and with it all chances of a fire seemed to dissipate. That didn’t stop her from thinking about it though, nor recognizing that the car was not going to be drivable from here on out.

Sighing, Joyce looked around herself to discern the best option. There was a small convenience store roughly a ten minute walk _back_ the way that she had come. Outside of the store was a payphone from which she would be able to call a tow truck, though god only knew how she was going to pay for that out of the blue.

Surrendering, she lit a cigarette, threw the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and started the hike back to the payphone.

\---

Maple Street was completely gone. The familiar cul-de-sac was lost. Around them was a darkened, heavily treed, old residential street which ended in a dead end that was all but swallowed by the surrounding woods.

Nancy could barely breathe, the fear increasing and the bile rising in her throat. With a trembling voice and forced nerves, she spoke lowly. “Jonathan… where _are_ we?” she never looked away from the ominous trees that stood as silent watchers in the darkened daylight.

Jonathan slowly turned and looked around the two of them. He caught sight of the K5 Blazer first. “Hopper’s also –“ he spotted the bones hanging from the porch roof, and his eyes widened in shock. He was _certain_ that one of them was a human femur.

The chill settled over him, draping like a cloak of ice upon his shoulders. His mouth ran dry with a mixture of fear and trepidation.

That horrible sense of impending doom had come back full force. He was frozen in place; something seemed _very_ wrong – beyond _just_ the sudden change in their location. His heart was racing erratically, and there was a crackling of danger, of dread, in the air. It hung over them like a viscous fog.

He recognized the sense of danger and dread all too well, and slowly turning to glance at the house number, his fears were confirmed. “Sixty Five, Tanglewood Drive…”

Nancy turned to him quickly, “What?”

“We’re at Sixty Five…. Tanglewood Drive… This is George Percival’s house.” Jonathan’s normal pallor had lost another few shades. He resembled snow white paper, and was trembling almost imperceptibly.

“How…”

\---

The tow company had no available trucks to pick up the Pinto. They were all out on call. Apparently there had been a bad accident about five miles outside of Hawkins, and the few available drivers had been required to help the State Troopers deal with the destruction.

As a result, Joyce had been told to return to her car and simply _wait_ for someone to show up. But, with the knowledge of her father weighing on her shoulders, and the storm brewing overhead, Joyce wasn’t too keen on spending the next few hours sitting on her _metal_ car waiting for someone to come “rescue” her. Unfortunately there wasn’t much of another choice left to her, and full of exasperation, she started the trek back to the broken down Pinto.

Her mind went pleasantly blank as she walked. Such was the benefit of the simple, rather repetitive, task. It cleared her mind of the worries that had started to build up. More than just worries though, there was real anger brewing.

After several long moments of walking along the shoulder of the road, Joyce once again spotted her Pinto in the near distance. She exhaled with relief, apparently holding a breath that she hadn’t been aware of. The most ridiculous part of this was, if she simply kept walking passed the car, she’d reach her driveway within twenty minutes. A large part of her truly just wanted to forfeit the car for now and go home. She was starting to get a headache, but whether it was from stress, exhaustion, or a migraine caused by the broody atmosphere, Joyce couldn’t tell.

She looked up again, expecting to be no more than thirty feet from the Pinto, and found herself… lost.

Brows furrowing, she came to a halt and looked around. The main road was gone, and she was no longer standing on the shoulder, but rather in the centre of a quiet residential street. The road seemed to be just _barely_ hewn from the woodland around it, as large trees separated the houses from each other. They were small – the houses that was – but each was a little different. This was not a cookie-cutter street.

The hair began to rise on the back of her neck as a sense of terror settled over her; she recognized the street, but couldn’t immediately put a name to it. At the far end of the street, the forest seemed to swallow the pavement, and as she slowly started creeping forward, she realized that the street dead-ended.

 _Tanglewood Drive_ , she finally remembered the name of it – and the name was apt for the street that was embraced by the looming woods on all sides – was more than ten miles from where she had left the Pinto on the side of the street.

Creeping forward in the manner of a nervous mouse, Joyce headed further down Tanglewood Drive – she didn’t know why she was doing it, only that it felt like she was being pulled towards the forest. It called to her, like a siren beckoning her with promises of peace and contentment. Almost like she was being led by the hand towards the end of the street.

Her brows furrowed as she spotted the two-toned beige K5 Blazer sitting in the driveway of the house at the end of the street. She knew very well that Hopper was supposed to be on Woodburn Avenue, de-escalating the situation between Agnes Pierce and her neighbors. So, why was his vehicle here? Had he been called out here in the approximately forty minutes since he had left her at the library?

She felt like a serpent was writhing in her belly, the closer that she came to the house. Despite this, she picked up her pace as she worried about Hopper’s presence at the lonely house at the end of the street.

Her apprehension grew, doubling as it started to boil in the back of her neck, once she saw the altered façade of old Mrs. Wallace’s little wartime house.

Her heart was beating strongly in her breast, and yet it was a calm and slow pace. It pounded against her rib cage with each strong pulsation. She could hear it, loud and clear as the din of the world around her began to fade away into the vacuum of silence. She was being drawn, pulled as if by an invisible rope that was fastened to the center of her chest, towards strange, dark, little house.

She passed the bone chimes as if they didn’t exist. Her eyes were locked on the front door, as the blood rushed in her ears. She was moving outside of her body, outside of time itself.

As she reached for the door, it creaked open in an unearthly slow pace, and the figure of a man stepped out from the low-light of the house interior, to meet her on the shadowed porch.

Her heart began to race, as her eyes grew wide in disbelief. She felt cold, even as the energy crackled and raced along the surface of her skin.

Before her, dressed in a dark henley and torn grey-washed jeans, stood a figure that she never in her wildest dreams thought that she would see again.

Hand still lightly on the door handle, her father gazed gently down upon her. His deep-set, dark, eyes were soft and warm, though his expression was one of just barely contained heartache as he watched the truth dawning on Joyce’s face.

Christopher Joyce was unchanged. The dim shadows under the roof of the porch settled under his brow-bone, and laid into the hollows of his face, bringing the sharp cheekbones into striking relief, and cut out his strong jawline. As he watched Joyce, his eyes betrayed the bone-weary exhaustion that clung to him like a cloak.

He stood, silent, waiting to be addressed rather than forcing his presence further upon his damaged daughter.

Joyce woke, as if from a dream. Her voice was gone, her throat tight as she stared into the face of her father, the man that she had last seen forty years before. As much as she knew it was impossible, she was met by a terrifying truth. Her father was _alive_ , and more importantly, he was unchanged _since 1944_. His dark hair wasn’t even touched by a trace of silver frost, and his face was yet unmarred by his years. The expression lines were still delicate enough that they merely gave him an air of authority, rather than betrayed the years that he had lived.

Joyce passed, quickly, through several stages of emotion. Shock, horror, denial, and found herself suddenly at anger.

It all broke, as the floodgate of forty years let go, and she snapped.

“How could you!? How _could_ you leave us like that?!” her voice raised, and she screamed wildly at the man standing before her. She never meant to speak to him - to bring to light the hurts of the past, but she couldn't stop herself.

His sorrowful gaze never changed, and he made no move to step closer. He stood his ground, giving her the space for her emotions.

“Do you have _any_ idea what it was like?! One day Mom just came in and – just came in and told me you were _gone_! That _nothing_ could bring you back!” She screamed, but her anger was starting to falter along with her voice as the emotions welled up.

“How could you _do_ that?! How could you _leave_?!” Joyce brought her hand down hard and fast; slapping his breast over his heart as she started to shake with the gaping sorrow that she had not been able to release for years. Unable to stop herself she punched him in the chest.

He closed his eyes as she struck him, his breathing was soft as she beat the firm wall of his breast over and over again.

As the flood of adrenaline started to pass, and the effort of throwing punch after punch started to take its toll on her, Joyce’s strikes grew less and less harsh, until she started to sag as the heartache bloomed anew in her heart.

“How could you leave _me_?” She sobbed as her knees began to give way.

His arms wrapped around her, and easily supported her sagging weight as he drew her close.

The tears poured down Joyce’s cheeks as she buried her face into her father’s chest. She quickly wrapped her arms around him, and dug her fingers into the back of his shirt. She held on for dear life, afraid that if she let go of him, he would disappear once more; as ephemeral as mist on a sunny morning.

“Wasn’t I good enough?” the trembling statement left her lips, and buried in her father’s chest, Joyce sounded like a lost little girl all over again.

“Oh, Joyce… _No_...” Christopher – George – hugged her more tightly as he pressed a kiss into her dark hair. “It was _never_ that. I loved you – love you – more than _anything_ in this world.” He kissed her forehead once again, as he eased himself back from her carefully. “I never _wanted_ to leave you.”


	8. The God of the Never Never

 Breath still shallow and heart racing, the world had turned to silence. It moved with reduced pace, as George eased his hold on her, and stepped aside. Looking past him, and trying very hard not to linger on the yet unanswered questions of just _how_ this could be her father, forty years passed the day he was said to have died, Joyce focused her eyes on the closed door of the little wartime house. She moved slowly, as though in a trance, as she reached for the door handle.

 Standing off to the side, George remained quiet in the dim shadows of his porch.

 Joyce barely cast a red-eyed glance in his direction, as she pushed the front door open, and stepped into the darkened house on Tanglewood Drive.

 Her heart was in her throat, her eyes were bloodshot, and her face was puffy from the breaking of her emotions; her hand still gripped the handle of the door tightly as she stepped into the low-light of the main living area, and came face to face with all the things that she never expected.

 The man that she had known, forty years ago when she was just a little girl, had never seemed to mind warm, vibrant colours, and yet this house was the opposite of everything that Joyce had thought she knew of her father. It was dark, made of the colours of the night and of the absence of all light. Not even the wood trims and moldings were safe from this treatment, as every possible surface seemed to bear a rich, dark, tone. What windows that there were, were nearly entirely covered to block the minimal sunlight that escaped from the looming black storm clouds that cloaked Hawkins Indiana like a wraith. The only light and warmth that existed in the small house, came from the glowing woodstove in the corner of the room, and from the strings of soft white Christmas lights that crisscross the ceilings and gave minimal illumination to the living area, and allowed the strange plants to thrive in the otherwise inhospitable interior.

 The interior, oh the interior…

 This was not what she ever expected from her father, never in a thousand years.

 The interior of #65 Tanglewood Drive was a barren landscape, dotted with death and strangeness. Bones were scattered through the house with as little thought as knickknacks. They hung from twine anchored in amongst the strange forest of hanging houseplants and Christmas lights, like tendrils hanging from a skeletal ceiling. They sat on tables and shelves, placed either with such intense care that their meaning and orientation held some vast and ancient secret that only the druids of old could possibly decipher, or with such inattention that they merely existed as a sidenote, a secondary or tertiary thought in the daily life of Christopher Joy- no. He no longer bore that name - no longer referred to himself in the context of that moniker.

 He was George Percival now.

 Joyce swallowed tightly as her eyes followed the paths of the Christmas lights, and in the depth of her stomach she felt a growing unease as the ghostly reminders of 1983 passed over her, raking their frozen fingers down her spine and settling into her belly.

 The teenagers watched her with bated breath; shoulders tense as they sat on the dark settee. The sense of unease and dread radiated off of them in such strong waves that Mike would have sworn it should have been visible to the naked eye. The only one in the group that did not seem to feel this way was, of course, El herself. The girl sat with her back straight and her shoulders back in the middle of the herd, positioned at Mike’s left-hand side. Unlike the others, she merely watched as Joyce looked around the dark house.

 Flanking the group, were Steve and Hopper; each of them half-perched themselves on the arms of the couch, where they were able to quickly and easily jump to their feet to defend their pack, if the need arose. Judging by the independent looks adorning the two of them, they were both entirely unaware that they were mimicking each other.

Jonathan and Nancy sat, tightly positioned together, in a nearby chair. Nancy’s grip on Jonathan’s hand was so firm that his knuckles were beginning to turn a sickly greenish white tone, not that he seemed to notice.

 The only thing that any of them were paying active attention to, was Joyce Byers.

 Only a few mere moments had passed, and yet it felt like an eternity.

 George Percival quietly entered the house behind his newest guest. The wooden door gave a soft, but weighty, thump! As it sealed itself once more.

 Now that they were all present, it felt as though the door would never Open again.

 The sound broke through Joyce’s reverie, if only long enough to bring her attention back to the man that owned the house in question. Turning, her dark eyes fell onto the form of George Percival. Of her father.

 She watched him intently.

 George paid little mind to the increasing tension in the house. While it was undoubted that he could feel it as strongly as the rest of the amassed party, it had made a point to actively ignore it.

 He moved around the interior easily; unburdened by their thoughts of him.

 Will swallowed tightly, as his eyes darted between his mother and the form of the man that had quite literally taken Hawkins by storm.

 Through the closed front door of the house, Will had only been able to make out the basic tone of the words exchanged between his mother and George Percival. The words themselves were indistinguishable, though he had certainly understood the increasing volume and change of pitch as his mother had started shouting and crying in anger.

 After all, Will had heard the distant arguments between  his parents far too many times before Lonnie Byers finally left his family behind.

 His mouth ran dry and his throat tightened as he thought about all the possibilities of the argument that had transpired between Joyce and George. It had been obvious that she had started screaming at him, and it had been obvious that the anger and turned into tears and weeping. Yet George, for all that Will could see of him now, had reacted with the same coldness and level-headed calmness that made him so terrifying.

 Will could not, however, deny the strange energy that had passed between himself and George Percival before they entered the house on Tanglewood Drive.

 There was something Different about George Percival, and though it seemed almost impossible, Will thought he knew what it was.

 It only made his mother’s argument with, and current fixation on, the man that much more worrisome.

  “Mom…” Will’s voice was soft. Though Joyce would normally have immediately reacted to him calling for her, she seemed completely focused on George.

 “How…” Joyce’s own soft voice, now devoid of the tears and anger, broke through the weighty silence in the house, as she gazed upon her father.

 There he was. Her father. Forty years seemingly dead, and yet completely unaltered. Without age. To be honest, the years with Lonnie had aged Joyce perhaps more than they should have, but at forty six she appeared more thinly worn than her father. While George Percival was not a glowing youth, there was an element of it beneath the surface. Though he bore the brunt of years lived, he looked, in truth, at least a decade younger than his child.

 It was incomprehensible to Joyce, that he should be just the same and yet so different. As she focused on him, and truly forced herself to exam him as he moved about the living room, Joyce could not even find a trace of increased grey hair. It simply wasn’t there. The lines of his face had not changed, and had he not changed the clothing styles that he was wearing, she might have actually wondered if he had merely stepped out of the photograph of Christopher Joyce and into this reality.

 George move about the living room, focused on the task ahead of him. It wasn’t going to be easy - it never was. But this time it was so much more daunting. Before, he had never come back.

 Aligning himself with the first task to be completed, George moved to the table and knelt before it. Immediately starting to grab the jars that he had positioned on the tray with the eleven mugs, he opened the stoppers and began to toss dried herbs into the waiting mortar and pestle. The children jumped, the moment he came close, but he put it out of his mind as he started to methodically grind the concoction in the marble bowl.

 Mike’s brows knit as he watched the man work. He glared at him, still untrusting - and who could ever blame him?

 “What are you doing? What is that!?” Mike straightened as he moved on the couch.

 “Mike…” El warned, laying her hand over his forearm.

 Mike turned to glare at the girl, but before he could say anything more, George Percival had once more risen to his feet.

 With the mortar in hand, he walked to the boiling ceramic pot position on the woodstove, and swiftly began to toss the ground herbs into the rolling water.

 Nearly instantly, the pungent fragrance began to rise from the pot.

 Dustin’s eyes widened - quickly looking from the boiling pot to the eleven mugs in front of him.

 “What the hell is that?!” Mike and Lucas shouted as they moved back from the edge of the couch.

 “What the hell are you doing?!”

 “He’s trying to smoke us out!”

 “Mike!” El tried again.

 “Guys!” Dustin looked between the mugs and the boiling pot; the expression on his face clearly one of horror and worry.

 Steve seemed to pick up on the meaning faster than Dustin’s peers. “Oh! No! No, no NO!” he jumped to his feet and crossed the distance between himself and George Percival faster than Hopper could stop him.

 “Hey!” Steve shouted, and George gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re not poisoning my kids!” his hand darted out and he pushed the man back with a quick snap of the wrist.

 “Christ kid are you trying to get yourself killed?!” Hopper, on his feet a split second after Steve had been, braced himself for what was to come. His hand moved to his gun, ready to draw it should the situation deteriorate.

 He tried not to think about the fact that if it came to it, he’d have to kill Joyce’s father right in front of her.

 A father that she’d grown up without, and had believe to be dead, only to find him here and alive… _fuck_.

 And yet the reaction of George Percival was not one that had been expected. He barely stumbled, merely correcting himself as he turned to face Steve straight on.

 He smiled. Not a sinister smirk, nor a look of arrogance and authority, but a gentle smile which reached his eyes and let them sparkle warmly.

 Holding her breath the moment that Steve had confronted her father, Joyce now released the slow exhale as relief washed over her, followed by a second way of pure elation.

 Despite the changes, despite the darkness of his house and all the weirdness Of its interior, and all the negative energy that seemed to cling to George Percival up to this point… Joyce suddenly recognized her father.

  _This_ was the man that she remembered. The slow to anger young man that had the kindest and warmest eyes. This smile, though it confused all those present, was one that made Joyce’s heart soar.

 She never really thought that it _could_ be him. And now she knew that it truly was.

 Steve’s brows furrowed and he looked quickly around, surprised by the smile giving in response to his confrontation. His eyes flickered to Hopper, who returned his uneasy and bemused look - hand still hovering over his gun once more.

 “I am not going to poison your children, Mr. Harrington.” George bowed his head gently, as he turned to look fondly at the group sitting on the sofa. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting my grandson or any of his collected family.”

 Hopper’s breath caught in his throat- he’d hoped for more time to try and explain what he knew to his daughter and her friends, but the circumstances had not been that forgiving.

 “What?!” Mike roared, jumping to his feet. “What the FUCK Is -”

 “LANGUAGE!” Steve, though reeling, turned and snapped at the Wheeler boy.

 “Oh go jump in the quarry!” Mike immediately snapped back at Steve.

 “MICHAEL!” Nancy shouted, quickly rising to her feet.

 Will was shaking, as he looked between his mother and George Percival. He knew the man’s truth, but Grandfather was _not_ part of it.

 The connotation terrified him more than he could put into words.

 Joyce glanced from her father to the boiling pot of water, and back to the group. They were just seconds away from tearing into each other, that much was certain.

 What was also certain, was what her father had put into the pot to boil.

 Her eyes met his, briefly, and George gave the barest of nods. Taking it as permission and confirmation, Joyce Byers swiftly grabbed a mug off of the tray, and moved to the woodstove. Without pausing she dipped into the boiling pot and brought up a mug full of liquid.

 Pausing just long enough to close her eyes and draw in a deep inhale of the aromatic liquid, Joyce calmed herself and took the largest mouthful that she could without scalding her mouth.

 “Joyce!”

 “Mom!”

 The voices sounded at the same time as the attention of the near-warring group was presently shifted from their own issues and back upon a central focus. Her.

 “Joyce what the hell are you doing, you don’t know what’s in that!” Hopper charged forward, and reached for the mug, but Joyce protected it and turned away.

 “I know _exactly_ what’s in it! It’s just tea!” stepping back, Joyce held the mug close to chest, allowing it to warm her cold hands and lightening her spirit.

 “My father used to always make it for me when I was little.”

 The penny in the air dropped, and Steve whirled away from George, to focus on Joyce. “Wait, WHAT?! He’s your _father_!?”

 Nodding her head, Joyce moved to the couch, and sank down between Will and Lucas. Taking one hand from her mug, she laid it on her son’s knee comfortingly as she met Will’s terrified gaze.

 “George Percival is… my father.” she swallowed around the large lump that had formed in her throat.

 Jonathan had wished for weeks that he had never laid eyes on George Percival. That he had never accepted the lens from the man. It had felt like a deal with the devil to him, and now…

 That morning, which now felt like a lifetime ago in and of itself, his mother had shown him a photo of her dead WWII Air Force Pilot father, Christopher Joyce. In that moment he had known, or rather he had begun to know, that George Percival was His grandfather, even though his mother had not thought it possible.

 And now…

 His stomach dropped with the layers and layers of weight that this confirmation, this impossible improbability turned truth, brought to his family.

 Will had shied away the moment he saw the first, blurred, photos of George Percival that Jonathan had taken with the new lens. The young teenager had acted as though he had been touched with a firebrand. He had not trusted the images, and judging by what he had heard through the others in the group, and through Nancy, his brother was absolutely terrified of George Percival.

 And now that man was their grandfather.

 Nancy could barely believe her ears; she gripped Jonathan’s arm firmly as she looked between Joyce and George; there were Similarities, but if he was truly the man that fathered her, then Joyce must have taken after her mother more.

 Jonathan nearly shook his girlfriend off, his mind only on the circumstances before him. “You said it wasn’t possible!” His voice was strained as he half-shouted at his mother. “You told me that there was no way it was possible but I _told_ you that it was him! I told you that your photo of your father matched George Percival!”

 George, having pushed himself out of the conversation and busying himself with filling the other ten mugs with the brewing tea, immediately looked up at Joyce.

 “The photo? You still have the tinted studio portrait?” a small, hopeful, smile flittered briefly across his mouth.

 Joyce’s dark brows furrowed as she looked at the man that had raised her until she was five. “Of course I still have it… it was all that I had left of you after you di–… after you … went away.”

 George’s smile returned, though this time it was marred by sorrow. "Joyce I never meant to hurt you..." George's voice was gentle, as though it were a calmly drifting evening mist.

Joyce kept her head down as she nodded.

"Truly," he pleaded "I would not have left you if I had had a choice. But I could not stay any longer..."

"Why not?" Jonathan almost spat as he shook Nancy off of his arm. "What was so important that you had to leave your four year old daughter behind?!"

George slowly turned to look at his eldest grandson. "Do you _really_ want to know? Even if the truth will bring the baying of nightmarish hounds to snap at your heels?" his voice was like a settling darkness, though it was barely above a whisper. It was a lead weight laid upon their shoulders.

Jonathan jerked in surprise, his mouth running dry as he looked at his Grandfather.

"What do you mean?" Nancy lifted her jaw as she attempted to look down her nose at the man and regain a sense of authority and control.

"I mean _exactly_ what I said. Do you really want to know, even if the answers will not set you at ease? Are you truly willing to know what I have to say, or would you rather remain in the dark?"

Will stepped out, trembling slightly as he reached for his grandfather's hand. He managed to slip his fingers into the man's, and squeeze gently as he swallowed the growing lump in his throat. "Please..."

George turned to look down at the boy. "I think it's time to know what's going on..."

El looked up at the man and nodded once, firmly. "You were there..."

George nodded easily. "I was."

"Were where?" Hopper's brows furrowed as he held the mug of aromatic tea in his cold hands.

El turned to her adoptive father, and met his eye, motionless, for a long moment before speaking up. "In the Upside Down."

"What?!" Mike roared as he leaped to his feet again. "What?! You were in the Upside Down and yet you didn't -"

"Mike, shut up..." Lucas warned, giving his friend a dark look. "Shut up and just let him talk. You can get angry later..."

Fuming, and glaring, Mike snorted for a moment before lowering himself back onto the dark coloured settee. "Fine."

El glanced at her boyfriend before looking back at Hopper, though she spoke to everyone currently present. "I felt he was there, when I was in the Upside Down. After the Demogorgon... I couldn't see him, but I could _feel_ him. Like someone following me."

Hopper instantly shot his attention to George, moving to defend his daughter, but Will interrupted.

"Me too... I could feel him when I was lost..." the youngest Byers boy swallowed tightly, and to his side, George squeezed his hand gently.

Joyce's brows furrowed as her eyes widened, her gaze immediately locking on her son and father.

"He... watched over me. I could feel it. But I never saw him, it was more like... like an invisible giant on the edge of my vision. I think he's why the Demogorgon didn't kill me the instant it got me into the Upside Down. All I know is that it pulled me in and..." Will's voice faltered as the tears started to sparkle in his eyes.

George sighed softly as he pulled the boy in against his side. He hugged him carefully, keeping his arm around the boy's shoulders as he looked up and finished the story.

“And… when I felt him… the Demogorgon must have too… because it would run away… like it was terrified…”

“It _was_ terrified, Will.” George murmured softly, before looking back at the rest of the group collected. He studied them all for a moment, his dark eyes locking with theirs as he studied them each for a passing moment. “I suppose it’s time to tell you who I am – who I _truly_ am…”

When he was born into the world, it was the time before Time existed.

The world was cold, and dark; while the sun and the warmth came, it never stayed long. It was the time before the notion of summer, before the notion of almost anything. Magic and mysticism did not exist, for they were merely the energy of the Earth itself thrumming within each new season, with each life and with every death. It was a time before the earliest shamans, before the birth of language as modern scholars could understand it.

Bones were collected from the places in the deadfalls; the remnants of the beasts and the people alike. They were kept was mementos – reminders of lost loved ones, while the bones of the beasts were worn as ornaments.

The very world was magic, for nothing existed beyond the horizon, and so they traveled on, each new season, creating the new world, and destroying the one they left behind them. This was the way it was, for countless generations passed, and for the countless, nameless, generations to come.

When he was born, the world was not yet formed.

Countless years, longer than human record, and yet it was no less true.

He was born when people had not yet declared their superiority over the beasts, and so they lived with the earth in a state of balance, for they were beasts just the same.

He was born into a small band of people, consisting of only a handful of those that had lived to reach adulthood in the brutal lands of perpetual hardship. His pack consisted of only his parents, an elder brother and three other adults - one of which was an eternally ancient woman with long frost-grey hair decorated by the collected teeth of fallen bears.

In the language before language, the stalker of beasts and his mate named their child _Hruf_ , and Hruf he became.

In the primal land before all else, Hruf grew from infant, to young child, and though it was a bitter existence, a childhood he had.

In the language of their people, his great-grandmother the matriarch of their pack still living at the ancient age of seventy-five, told Hruf the stories of their world, for there were no creation stories, no deities, no religion – only the long expanse of near-frozen forest and tundra. Yet she spoke in riddles, weaving stories from starlight, grass, and bone. She told of a place where the darkness existed eternal, where the sun never shone. It was a place without a name, for she never named it.

And then one day Hruf vanished into thin air. Like the wind in the trees, he vanished with the passing of an hour. They searched for him, for days, for weeks, until the snows started to fly and the call of the raven fell upon them once more. They were forced to move on, to protect the other child and the one growing within the mother.

With no trace of Hruf, nor mortal remains to carry with them, and the world that was destroyed and vanished as they moved beyond its horizons, the family abandoned Hruf to the darkness of non-existence – to the place where all that never existed thrived. For with no trace or reminder of him, the memory of Hruf ceased to exist, for their language and their culture had no way of remembering passed those reminders.

Once, and only once, in all the ages of the world a child was born whose imagination was so strong that it was able to leak into reality and thereby shift the very nature of existence.

Fed on stories of the land, and the darkness of a place without a name, this child was lost to the place beyond the distant, frozen, rivers.

As he played in autumnal meadows of twilit, frosted, blues and violet greys, he wandered just a step too far from his familial pack. And the world opened up.

The forest and the plains that Hruf had known vanished, and he found himself in the place where the sun never rose. In a place of bitter coldness, he was alone. He called for his parents, for his brother, for his ancient great-grandmother, yet no one came. He called to them, could hear their voices calling back to him, and yet no matter how close they seemed – he could never find them. And then the voices stopped calling his name, and Hruf felt the weight of pure isolation fall upon him as the snows came.

It stretched on beyond his wildest dreaming – it never ended, it never changed.

It was the Never Never.

Alone and cold in the dark, Hruf’s fears grew. Fears of bears, of beasts that he knew, and the monsters that he did not. And so they came – creatures of nameless origins, faceless beings beyond the most horrific of nightmares. They came in droves – not just one in the lonely night, but as herds.

The howling of the wolves was worse – the wolves that were not wolves.

All of these things came, drawn to the child as a moth to the flame, because he was their creator.

Lost and alone, terrified beyond measure and with an ability to change reality, Hruf created a land of monsters, vicious and unnatural.

And there he remained.

Hruf adapted to the strange land, to the desperate need to stay hidden, and alone he grew into a man – a man whose abilities did not diminish with age, but grew.

As he grew, so did his understanding of the strange dark place that had as child become his prison, and as an adult his domain. He was a hunter, a slayer of beasts without names. He bore their teeth and their bones with pride.

And so, this continued age after age, yet the man who no longer bore the name _Hruf_ never died. He lived within the darkness, adapting and shifting, as the world dictated to him, and he to it. He lived through countless life-times, passed any natural age of men in the time before Time. He changed the darkness, and the darkness changed him.

As the ages wore on, his power grew, yet it took time innumerable to do so.

In the counting of men, three hundred thousand years had passed.

In the world outside of the Never Never, humanity had changed very little. The language that Hruf had once known, had long died, yet much of the ways of survival remained intact.

He was barely human any more – had been changed so minutely for so long, that he was no longer of this world. He was a creature just as those he had unwillingly inhabited the darkness with.

There are places along the Earth where the veil between our world and the next is thinned. For some, this happens only during the solstices and equinoxes, when the natural energy is in flux. For others, this thinning exists at all parts of the year. These are places that the earliest religions deemed _holy_.

For Hruf, or the nameless man that he had become in his isolation, these places were windows back into the land that he had left behind. They offered a vision, as heartbreaking as it might be, of the place in which he could not tread.

But the veil was thinned, and he found that he was able to break free from the Never Never. He was able to cross back into the world of the living – back into the reality that he had been born into. But it was never as easy as leaving the darkness behind, for the darkness always came with him. Because of this, he learned to control the breaches between worlds, to open them and knit them back together as he came and went.

Because of this, the oldest religions, predating even the Venus – the mother – figure, worshipped a nameless figure long-lost to history. The shamans knew of him, the figure that came and went once in an age of man.

But, he was no longer part of this world. He did not belong, and the longer that he stayed away from the darkness, the more the Never Never deteriorated and tried to reach out for him beyond the knitted breach through which he had crossed. It was a foreboding place of loneliness, monsters, and perpetual night… and yet it was living creature – a hound whining for its master. And thus, he returned to the darkness again.

As the world moved on without him, as mankind beat on, the mysterious figure was forgotten. As generations passed the memory of he was lost in time, and so the rise of other religions came, starting with the worship of animal and earth spirits – as it always should have been. As those beliefs flared and faded, the rise of the worship of the mother – she who could create life – all but eradicated the last vestiges of the memory of him.  Finally, the world beat on, bringing rise to systems more involved than just the cult of motherhood.

But the Never Never was changed. He had spent too long away from it, too many years, and it had become weakened and sickly. No longer was it merely dark and cold. The snow that once flew there turned to toxic ash, and so too did the nature of the creatures and plants change.

Little by little the Never Never became more forboding, and less welcoming. The creatures within it became fewer, and farther between as the toxic nature of their surroundings drove them to adapt and evolve. The ash that fell from the blackened heavens burned their eyes, and so the few creatures that still _had_ eyes, lost them to protect themselves as their realm became a broken mirror of the world outside.

It was not impenetrable, and became a target for darkness that existed on the _other_ side of the veils, from the place also beyond our world.

Yet the thinned barriers between the Never Never and the outside world remained. As the monsters of the nightmarish place adapted and thrived in their lands, they became bolder. Once in a while a _wolf_ or a _bear_ , or some other predatory creature that their creator had no name for, would break through the tissue thin wall between the worlds, and he would give chase.

In this way, the way of the Hunter, he had once again become known across the world. They told stories of him, he became part of myths and legends, which were further adapted for separate religions. 

In Greece they named him the slayer of monsters, for he carried the head of a vaguely reptilian humanoid as he rode a quadruped for which they had no name. There were countless names in countless languages.

He came and went when he was needed.

He lived with the people when he could, stayed for as long as he dared.

In the countless ages, over the countless generations, the countless lives as countless figures, he would sometimes meet a woman. Sometimes so special – a woman unafraid of him, no matter what the others said of him. In this way over centuries, millennia, he had become a father – a loving and doting father to be sure, but one that always had to leave.

Joyce was the first that had ever met him again, for when he left, he usually needed to stay away for centuries, and by the time he returned, only the distant descendants of his children remained.

He had borne many names, become many figures, and fathered many children throughout history. It always broke him to have to leave them behind – for they were never at fault. He was a man not meant to remain in the world that birthed him, but belonged solely to the Never Never.

He was not even a man – not a human man – any longer. He’d long ago left behind his humanity become what some would call a “god”. What he was, was a shadow without name, and so each culture named him differently. To others, he was a monster – a creature that spoke in split frequencies and whose form was ephemeral until it was on this side of the veil. Whose whole existence was both cursed and blessed. A creature born before Time, who created and destroyed the world. A lonely hero, a vile villain to some.

He looked at the gathered group, who sat with looks of awestruck horror as their once-steaming mugs of tea now turned cold with the passage of time. His story nearly completely, he spoke again – his voice cracking as he fought to keep it from splitting into multiple frequencies from over-use. But the house was adapted for his needs, and should his voice split, the numerous electronic pieces and gadgets would catch it and filter it back to tone that human ears could understand. 

“I am… the God of the Never Never. I created it, and it, in turn, created me. I am the origin of the place that you call the Upside Down.”, he swallowed slightly – his throat raw from prolonged speech.

Finally it cracked, and his voice thrummed loud and deep. The world slowed down and the ground beneath them rumbled; the walls of #65 Tanglewood Drive quaked. They could feel the deep frequencies vibrating their bones; their sternums buzzing with the noise.

It started with the low tones, lower than any human ear could register. And then the midtones became audible, all speaking at once.  A hundred thousand voices melding into one – an army speaking in unison. And still the words were beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. It was as though the Universe itself was speaking.

The gutted radios, the clock pieces, even the myriad of strange and nameless plants that seemed to be hanging all around the dark house, crackled to life. Through these filters came the voice which was recognizably that of the man. “I am nameless – older than memory and time.”

Joyce was in shock, her body shaking. In an afternoon her complete understanding of her life, of her parents, of everything that she had ever known, had been destroyed. 

She had siblings… extending millennia into the history of the Earth – her father was born before the time of Time. 400,000 years passed.

His voice terrified her – she jumped as the earth shook with the strangeness of his split tones. She looked to him in fear, but his eyes – his eyes were the warm hazel that she remembered as a child.

He was still her father. And he still loved her.

Dustin’s brows furrowed as he looked up at the man. “George Percival… You’re Perseus… They had no word for the monster you rode, so you became Perseus, he who slayed the Gorgon, and who rode a winged horse named Pegasus… And Saint George and the Dragon… that was you… so you put the names together.”

George Percival turned his gaze back to the young teen, and nodded his head.

“I don’t get it. How can you _possibly_ exist?” Lucas spat the words out in shock. El glanced at him, followed by Mike.

“Lucas… it wouldn’t be the _strangest_ thing we’ve ever heard…” Dustin snapped back.

“Wait, if you only leave the Never Nev- The Upside Down,” Joyce caught herself with a shake of her head. “When something escapes – why-“

Nancy snapped, interrupting her without pause. “Why weren’t you here before?! When the Demogorgon broke out two years ago?! When it took Barb!”

George turned his eyes slowly towards her, and Nancy felt a cold shiver pass through her body. She felt as though she was rooted to her place on the couch under his omniscient stare. She swallowed tightly.

“The Never Never exists _everywhere_. It covers the entire expanse of the Earth, and while I might be its creator, it’s God, the one that walked the Earth and spread the dark realm as far as possible in the attempt to find my way out as a _child_ ” his words held venom – had the girl not been listening? “There is only _one_ of me. While I can travel and move faster than the lot of you, can shift the world and bend it and reality to my will to take me where I am needed, it nevertheless takes time to come from Russia to America. I came as quickly as I could, but Barb was already pulled into the darkness.”

Nancy pursed her lips, folded her arms, and looked away from him.

George watched her for a long moment, before breaking the weighted silence. “Besides, Barb is safe.”

“Barb is _dead_.” Nancy spat, quietly, though Jonathan elbowed her slightly.

“Barb is _not_ dead.” George enunciated slowly. “Many people find their way into the Never Never and cannot find their way out. I tried to help her back, but it was too late. She was found by another of the inhabitants – a Fighter Pilot named Evelyn Elliott.”

Nancy slowly looked back to the man. “Are you lying?”

“I am _many_ things, child, but I am not a liar. Evelyn and Barb are safe, and happy _together_.” He emphasized the word. “They are a mated pair.”

Silence fell over the group.

“How can you speak English?” Mike finally spoke up. “I mean I get that you’re apparently older than dirt, but-“

“Mike!” Hopper gasped and glared at the boy, who responded with a shrug.

“What? He is!”

“I learn swiftly.” George Percival responded before the argument could become any more fully fledged. “I can manipulate any energy, most of which is through sound. So I am able to modulate and speak in a way that mimics whatever language I need, after which I am able to understand it. I have known almost all the languages of the Earth, and spoken them with fluency. There are millions, and they are all but dead now.”

“I’m curious…” Hopper spoke up as he leaned forward. George’s eyes moved back to the police chief.

“Yes?”

“All of your children, all the ones you’ve had over …. Well however long…”

The man looked down, and Hopper saw the signs of guilt.

“No, not like that. I’m not… I’m not blaming you, that’s not my question.”

“What _is_ your question?”

“You were born with a tremendous ability… Were any of your children born … _different_?”

“My earliest children became Shamans of their faiths, because they were able to alter the minds of those in worship. They could create hallucinations, spin living dreams, and force trance-like states. But it would all diminish, yes. It would never last as the nightmares I had created.”

“And later children?”

“The abilities became less noticeable. In most they simply don’t exist. I am the only one of my kind, if that is what you’re asking.”

Hopper nodded, allowing his thought process to trail off. “I see.”

“Although…” George spoke again, as his eyes travelled to El. “ _Some_ children were born after millennia and multiple generations of ancestors with the same transmuted abilities…”

The penny dropped.

“You’re related to all of them…” Dustin spoke up. “All of the children in the MKUltra program… they were all from your line…”

George Percival turned back to the boy, and nodded his head once. “Yes.”

 


End file.
